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 m'-'
 
 UNlV::-U5iTV OF 
 CALIFORNIA 
 SAN DM&O
 
 53-
 
 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 BY 
 
 THEODORE WINTHEOP, 
 
 AUTHOR OF " CECIL DKEEME." 
 
 BOSTON : 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor & Fields, axb Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 1871.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1862, by 
 
 TICKNOR AND FIElPfi 
 
 in the ClerK's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 Cambridge : 
 
 WiLOU, BlQELOW, AND COMPAH/ 
 
 Peini'ers to thb Ukitebbitt.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Chap. Pagb 
 
 I. AuRi Sacra Fames 5 
 
 n. Gerrian's Ranch . . . . . 13 
 
 in. Don Fulano 23 
 
 IV. John Brent ... . . 36 
 
 V. Across Country 49 
 
 VI. Jake Shamberlain 59 
 
 Vn. Enter, the Brutes! 67 
 
 VLTI. A Mormon Caravan .... 79 
 
 IX. SiZZUM AND HIS HERETICS .... 90 
 
 X. "Ellen! Ellen!" 101 
 
 XI. Father and Daughter . . . .113 
 
 XII. A Ghoul at the Feast . . . 125 
 
 Xin. Jake Shamberlain's Ball . . .136 
 
 XIV. Hugh Clitheroe 146 
 
 XV. A Lover 166 
 
 XVI. Armstrong 181 
 
 XVTI. Caitiff baffles Ogre . . . .193
 
 IV CONTENTS. 
 
 XVIII. A Gallop of Three .... 200 
 
 XIX. Faster 207 
 
 XX. A Horse 218 
 
 XXI. LUGGERNEL SPRINGS .... 225 
 
 XXII. Champagnb 238 
 
 XXIII. An Idyl op the Rockys . . .247 
 
 XXIV. Drapetomania 254 
 
 XXV. Noblesse Oblige 264 
 
 XXVI. Ham 274 
 
 XXVII. FuLANo's Blood-Stain ... 284 
 
 XXVni. Short's Cut-off .... 294 
 
 XXIX. A Lost Trail 301 
 
 XXX. London 313 
 
 XXXL A Dwarf 321 
 
 XXXH. Padiham's Shop 335 
 
 XXXin. " Cast thy Bread upon the Waters " 343 
 
 XXXIV. The Last of a Lov'e-Chase . . 354
 
 JOHN BRE^^T. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 AURI SACRA FAMES. 
 
 I WRITE in the first person; but I shall not 
 maunder about myself. I am in no sense the 
 hero of this drama. Call me Chorus, if you 
 please, — not Chorus merely observant and im- 
 passive; rather Chorus a sympathizing monitor 
 and helper. Perhaps I gave a certain crude 
 momentum to the movement of the play, when 
 finer forces were ready to flag ; but others bore 
 the keen pangs, others took the great prizes, 
 wHle I stood by to lift the maimed and cheer 
 the victor. 
 
 It is a healthy, simple, broad-daylight story. 
 No mystery in it. There is action enough, pri- 
 meval action of the Homeric kind. Deeds of 
 the heroic and chivalric times do not utterly dis- 
 dain our day. There are men as ready to gallop 
 for love and strike for love now, as in the age of 
 Amadis.
 
 6 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 Roughs and brutes, as well as gentlemen, take 
 their places iu this drama. None of the charac- 
 ters have scruples or qualms. They act accord- 
 ing to their laws, and are scourged or crowned, 
 as their laws suit Nature's or not. 
 
 To me these adventures were episode ; to my 
 friend, the hero, the very substance of life. 
 
 But enough backing and filling. Enter Rich- 
 ard Wade — myself — as Chorus. 
 
 A few years ago I was working a gold-quartz 
 mine in California. 
 
 It was a worthless mine, under the conditions 
 of that time. I had been dragged into it by the 
 shifts and needs of California life. Destiny prob- 
 ably meant to teach me patience and self-posses- 
 sion in difficulty. So Destiny thrust me into a 
 bitter bad business of quaetz mining. 
 
 If I had had countless dollars of capital to 
 work my mine, or quicksilver for amalgamation 
 as near and plenty as the snow on the Sierra 
 Nevada, I might have done well enoiigh. 
 
 As it was, I got but certain pennyworths of 
 gold to a most intolerable quantity of quartz. 
 The precious metal was to the brute mineral m 
 the proportion of perhaps a hundred pin-heads to 
 the ton. My partners, down in San Francisco, 
 wrote to me : " Only find twice as many pin- 
 heads, and our fortune is made." So thought
 
 AUEI SACRA FAMES. 7 
 
 those ardent fellows, fancying that gold would go 
 up and labor go down, — that presently I would 
 strike a vein where the mineral would show yel- 
 low threads and yellow dots, perhaps even yellow 
 knobs, in the crevices, instead of empty crannies 
 which Nature had prepared for monetary deposits 
 and forgotten to fill. 
 
 So thought the fellows in San Francisco. They 
 had been speculating in beef, bread-stufis, city 
 lots, Eincon Point, wharf property, mission lands, 
 Mexican titles, Sacramento boats, politics, Ore- 
 gon lumber. They had been burnt out, they had 
 been cleaned out, they had been drowned out. 
 They depended upon me and the quartz mine to 
 set them up again. So there was a small, steady 
 stream of money flowing up from San Francisco 
 from the depleted coffers of those sanguine part- 
 ners, flowing into our mine, and sinking there, 
 together with my labor and my life. 
 
 Our ore — the San Francisco partners liked to 
 keep up the complimentary fiction of calling it 
 ore — was pretty stuff for an amateur mineralogi- 
 cal cabinet. A professor would have exhibited 
 specimens to a lecture-room with delight. There 
 never was any quartz where the matrix was better 
 defined, better shaped to hold the gold that was 
 not in it. For Macadam, what royal material it 
 would have been ! Park roads made of it would 
 have glittered gayer than marble. How brilhant-
 
 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 \j paths covered with its creamy-white fragments 
 would have meandered through green grass ! 
 
 If I had had no fond expectations of these 
 shming wliite and yellow stones, I should have 
 deemed their mass useful and ornamental enough, 
 — useful skeleton material to help hold the world 
 together, ornamental when it lay in the sun and 
 sparkled. But this laughing sparkle had some- 
 thing of a sneer in it. The stuff knew that it 
 had humbugged me. Let a man or a woman be 
 victor over man or woman, and the chances are 
 that generosity will suppress the peean. But mat- 
 ter is so often insulted and disdained, that when 
 it triumphs over mind it is merciless. 
 
 Yes; my quartz had humbugged me. Or 
 rather — let me not be unjust even to undefend- 
 ed stone, not rich enough to pay an advocate — 
 I had humbugged myself with false hopes. I 
 have since ascertained that my experience is 
 not singular. Other men have had false hopes 
 of other things than quartz mines. Perhaps it 
 was to teach me this that the experience came. 
 Having had my lesson, I am properly cool and 
 patient now when I see other people suffering 
 in the same way, — whether they dig for gold, 
 fame, or bliss; digging for the bread of their 
 life, and getting only a stone. The quartz was 
 honest enough as quartz. It was my own fault 
 tliat I looked for gold-bearing quartz, and so
 
 AUEI SACRA FAMES. 9 
 
 louiKi it bogus and a delusion. What right 
 have "are to demand the noble from the ignoble ! 
 
 I used sometimes fairly to shake my fist at 
 my handsome pQe of mineral, my bullionless 
 pockets of ore. There was gold in the quartz ; 
 there are pearls in the Jersey muds ; there are 
 plums in boarding-house puddings ; there are 
 sixpences in the straw of Broadway omnibuses. 
 
 Steady disappointment, by and by, informs a 
 man that he is in the wrong place. All work, 
 no play, no pay, is a hint to work elsewhere. 
 But men must dig in the wrong spots to learn 
 where these are, and so narrow into the right 
 spot at last. Every man, it seems, must waste 
 go much life. Every man must have so much 
 imprisonment to teach him limits and fit him 
 for freedom. 
 
 Nearly enough, however of Miei Prigioni. A 
 word or two of my companions in jail. A 
 hard lot they were, my neighbors within twenty 
 miles ! Jail-birds, some of them, of the worst 
 kind. It was as well, perhaps, that my digging 
 did not make money, and theirs did. They 
 would not have scrupled to bag my gold and 
 butcher me. But they were not all rufiians ; 
 some were only barbarians. 
 
 Pikes, most of these latter. America is man- 
 ufacturing seveial new types of men. The 
 
 Pike is one of the newest. He is a bastard 
 1*
 
 10 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 pioneer. With one hand he chitches the pio- 
 neer vices ; with tlie other he beckons forward 
 the vices of civihzation. It is hard to under- 
 stand how a man can have so Httle virtue in 
 so long a body, unless the shakes are foes to 
 virtue in the soul, as they are to beauty in the 
 face. 
 
 He is a terrible shock, this unlucky Pike, to 
 the hope that the new race on the new continent 
 is to be a handsome race. I lose that faith, which 
 the people about me now have nourished, when I 
 recall the Pike. He is hung together, not put 
 together. He inserts his lank fathom of a man 
 into a suit of molasses-colored homespun. Frowzy 
 and husky is the hair Nature crowns him with ; 
 frowzy and stubby the beard. He shambles in 
 his walk. He drawls in his talk. He drinks 
 whiskey by the tank. His oaths are to liis words 
 as Falstaff's sack to his bread. I have seen Mal- 
 tese beggars, Arab camel-drivers, Dominican fri- 
 ars, New York Aldermen, Digger Lidians ; the 
 foulest, frowziest creatures I have ever seen are 
 thorough-bred Pikes. The most vigorous of 
 them leave their native landscape of cotton-wood 
 and sand-bars along the yellow ditches of the 
 "West, and emigrate with a wagon-load of pork 
 and pork-fed progeny across the plains to Cali- 
 fornia. There the miasms are roasted out of 
 them ; the shakes warmed away ; they will grow
 
 AURI SACRA FAMES. 11 
 
 rich, and possibly mellow, in the third or fourth 
 generation. They had not done so in my time. 
 I lived among them ad nauseam, month after 
 month, and I take this opportunity to pay them 
 parting compliments. 
 
 I went on toiling, day after day, week after 
 week, two good years of my life, over that miser- 
 able mine. Nothing came of it. I was growing 
 poorer with every ton we dug, poorer with every 
 pound we crushed. Li a few months more, I 
 should have spent my last dollar and have gone 
 to day labor, perhaps among the Pikes. The 
 turnpike stuff refused to change into gold. I 
 saw, of course, that something must be done. 
 What, I did not know. I was in that state 
 when one needs an influence without himself to 
 take him by the hand gently, by the shoulder 
 forcibly, by the hair roughly, or even by the nose 
 insultingly, and drag him off into a new region. 
 
 The influence came. Bad news reached me. 
 My only sister, a widow, my only near relative, 
 died, leaving two young children to my care. It 
 was strange how tliis sorrow made the annoyance 
 and weariness of my life naught ! How this re- 
 sponsibility cheered me ! My Ufe seemed no 
 longer lonely and purposeless. Point was given 
 to all my intentions at once. I must return 
 home to New York. Further plans when I am 
 there ! But now for home ! If any one wanted
 
 ]2 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 my quartz mine, he might have it. I could not 
 pack it in my saddle-bags to present to a college 
 cabinet of mineralogy. 
 
 I determined, as time did not absolutely press, 
 to ride home across the plains. It is a grand 
 journey. Two thousand miles, or so, on horse- 
 back. Mountains, deserts, prairies, rivers. Mor- 
 mons, Indians, buffalo, — adventures without 
 number in prospect. A hearty campaign, and 
 no carpet knighthood about it. 
 
 It was late August. I began my preparations 
 at once.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 GERKIAN'S RANCH. 
 
 It happened that, on a journey, early in the 
 same summer, some twenty miles from my mine, 
 I had come upon a band of horses feeding on the 
 prairie. They cantered off as I went riding 
 down the yellow slope, and then, halting just out 
 of lasso reach, stopped to reconnoitre me. Ani- 
 mals are always eager to observe man. Perhaps 
 they want ideas against the time of their promo- 
 tion to humanity, so that they need not be awk- 
 ward, and introduce quadruped habits into biped 
 circles. 
 
 The mass of the herd inspected me stupidly 
 enough. Man to them was power, and nothing 
 else, — a lasso-throwing machine, — something that 
 put cruel bits into equine mouths, got on equine 
 backs, and forced equine legs to gallop until they 
 were stiff. Man was therefore something to ad- 
 mire, but to avoid, — so these horses seemed to 
 think ; and if they had known man as brother 
 man alone knows him, perhaps their opinion 
 would have been confirmed.
 
 1-4 JOHN BEENl. 
 
 One horse, however, among them, had more 
 courage, or more curiosity, or more faith. He 
 withdrew from the gregarious commonalty, — the 
 haughty aristocrat ! — and approached me, cir- 
 cling about, as if he felt a certain centripetal 
 influence, — as if he knew himself a higher be- 
 ing than his mustang comrades, — nearer to man, 
 and willing to offer him his friendship. He and 
 I divided the attention of the herd. He seemed 
 to be, not their leader, but rather one who dis- 
 dained leadership. Facile princeps I He was 
 too far above the noblest of the herd to care for 
 their unexciting society. 
 
 I slipped quietly down from my little Mexican 
 caballo, and, tethering him to a bush with the 
 lariat, stood watching the splendid motions of this 
 free steed of the prairie. 
 
 He was an American horse, — so they distin- 
 guish in Cahfornia one brought from the old 
 States, — A SUPERB young stallion, perfectly 
 BLACK, WITHOUT MARK. It was magnificent to 
 see him, as he circled about me, fire in his eye, 
 pride .in his nostril, tail flying like a banner, 
 power and grace from tip to tip. No one would 
 ever mount him, or ride him, unless it was his 
 royal pleasure. He was conscious of his repre- 
 sentative position, and showed his paces hand- 
 somely. It is the business of all beautiful things 
 to exhibit.
 
 GERMAN'S EANCH. 15 
 
 Imagine the scene. A little hollow in the 
 prairie, forming a perfect amphitheatre ; the yel- 
 low grass and wild oats grazed short ; a herd of 
 horses staring from the slope, myself standing in 
 the middle, like the ring-master in a circus, and 
 this wonderful horse performing at his own free 
 will. He trotted powerfully, he galloped grace- 
 fully, he thundered at full speed, he lifted his 
 fore-legs to welcome, he flung out his hind-legs 
 to repel, he leaped as if he were springing over 
 bayonets, he pranced and curvetted as if he were 
 the pretty plaything of a girl ; finally, when he 
 had amused himself and delighted me sufficiently, 
 he trotted up and snuffed about me, just out of 
 reach. 
 
 A horse knows a friend by instinct. So does 
 a man. But a man, vain creature ! is willing 
 to repel instinct and trust intellect, and so suf- 
 fers from the attempt to revise his first impres- 
 sions, which, if he is healthy, are infallible. 
 
 The black, instinctively knowing me for a 
 friend, came forward and made the best speech 
 he could of welcome, — a neigh and no more. 
 Then, feeling a disappointment that his compli- 
 ment could not be more melodiously or grace- 
 fully turned, he approached nearer, and, not 
 without shying and starts, of which I took no 
 notice, at last licked my hand, put his head 
 upon my shoulder, suffered me to put my arm
 
 16 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 round his neck, and in fact lavished upon me 
 every mark of confidence. "We were growing 
 ■^ast friends, when I heard a sound of coming 
 hoofs. The black tore away with a snort, and 
 galloped off with the herd after him. A Mexi- 
 can vaquero dashed down the slope in pursuit. 
 I hailed liim. 
 
 "A quien es ese caballo — el negrito ? " 
 
 " Aquel diablo ! es del Senor Gerrian." And 
 he sped on. 
 
 I knew Gerrian. He was a Pike of the bet- 
 ter class. He had found his way early to Cali- 
 fornia, bought a mission farm, and established 
 himself as a ranchero. His herds, droves, and 
 flocks darkened the hills. The name reminded 
 me of the giant Geryon of old. Were I an 
 unscrupulous Hercules, free to pillage and name 
 it protection, I would certainly drive off Gerri- 
 an's herds for the sake of that black horse. So 
 I thought, as I watched them gallop away. 
 
 It chanced that, when I was making my ar- 
 rangements to start for home, business took me 
 within a mile of Gerrian's ranch. I remem- 
 bered my interview with the black. It occurred 
 to me that I would ride down and ask the ran- 
 chero to sell me his horse for my journey. 
 
 I found Gerrian, a lank, wire-drawn man, 
 burnt almost Mexican color, lounging in the 
 shade of his adobe house. I told him my busi 
 ness in a word.
 
 GERRL^N'S RANCH. 17 
 
 " No buenO) stranger ! " said he. 
 
 " Why not ? Do you want to keep the horse." 
 
 " No, not partickler. Thar am't a better stal- 
 lion nor him this side the Soutli Pass ; but I can't 
 do nothing with him no more 'n yer can with a 
 steamboat when the cap'n says, ' Beat or bust ! ' 
 Hg 's a black devil, ef thar ever was a devil into 
 a horse's hide. Somebody 's tried to break him 
 down when he was a colt, an now he wont stan* 
 nobody goan near him." 
 
 " Sell him to me, and I '11 try him with kind- 
 ness." 
 
 " No, stranger. I 've tuk a middlin' shine to 
 you from the way you got off that Chinaman 
 them Pikes was goan to hang fur stealing the 
 mule what he had n't stoled. I 've tuk a middlin' 
 kind er shine to you, and I don't want to see 
 yer neck broke, long er me. That thar black '11 
 shut up the hinge in yer neck so tight that 
 yer '11 never look up to ther top of a red-wood 
 again. Allowin' you haint got an old ox-yoke 
 into yer fur backbone, yer '11 keep off tliat thar 
 black kettrypid, till the Injins tie yer on, and 
 motion yer to let him slide or be shot." 
 
 " My backbone is pretty stiff," said I ; "I 
 will risk my neck." 
 
 " The Greasers is some on bosses, you '11 give 
 in, I reckon. Well, thar ain't a Greaser on my 
 ranch that '11 put leg over that tliar streak er
 
 18 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 four-legged lightning; no, not if yer 'd chain 
 off for him a claim six squar leagues in the raal 
 old Garden of Paradise, an stock it with ther best 
 gang er bullocks this side er Santer Fee." 
 
 " But I 'm not a Mexican ; I 'm the stiffest kind 
 of Yankee. I don't give in to horse or man. 
 Besides, if he throws me and breaks my neck 
 I get my claim in Paradise at once." 
 
 " Well, stranger, you 've drawed yer bead on 
 that thar black, as anybody can see. An ef a 
 man 's drawed his bead, thar ain't no use tellin* 
 him to pint off." 
 
 " No. If you '11 sell, I '11 buy." 
 
 " Well, if you wunt go fur to ask me to throw 
 in a coffin to boot, praps we ken scare up a 
 trade. How much do you own in the Foolonner 
 Mine ? " 
 
 I have forgotten to speak of my mine by its 
 title. A certain Pike named Pegrum, Colonel 
 Pegrum, a pompous Pike from Pike County, 
 Missouri, had once owned the mine. The Span- 
 iards, finding the syllables Pegrum a harsh mor- 
 sel, spoke of the colonel, as they might of any 
 stranger, as Don Fulano, — as we should say, 
 " John Smith." It grew to be a nickname, and 
 finally Pegrum, taking his donship as a title of 
 honor, had procured an act of the legislature 
 dubbing him formally Don Fulano Pegrum. As 
 such he is known, laughed at, become a public
 
 GEEELAN'S RANCH. 19 
 
 man and probable Democratic Governor of Cali- 
 fornia. From him our quartz cavern had taken 
 its name. 
 
 I told Gerrian that I owned one quarter of the 
 Don Fulano Mine. 
 
 " Then you 're jess one quarter richer 'n ef you 
 owned haff, and jess three quarters richer 'n ef 
 you owned the hull kit and boodle of it." 
 
 " You are right," said I. I knew it by bitter 
 heart. 
 
 " Well stranger, less see ef we can't banter fur 
 a trade. I 've got a boss that ken kill ayry man. 
 That 's so ; ain't it ? " 
 
 " You say so." 
 
 " You 've got a mine, that '11 break ayry man, 
 short pocket or long pocket. That 's so ; ain't 
 it?" 
 
 "No doubt of that." 
 
 " Well now ; my curwolyow 's got grit into 
 him, and so 's that thar pile er quartz er yourn 
 got gold into it. But you cant git the slugs out 
 er your mineral ; and I can get the kicks a blasted 
 bight thicker 'n anything softer out er my animal. 
 Here's horse agin mine, — which 'd yer rether 
 hev, allowin' 't was toss up and win." 
 
 " Horse ! " said I. " I don't know how bad 
 he is, and I do know that the mine is worse 
 than nothing to me." 
 
 " Lookerhere, stranger ! You 're goan home
 
 20 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 across lots. You want a horse. I 'm goan to 
 stop here. I 'd jess as lives gamble off a hun- 
 dred or two head o' bullocks on that Foolonner 
 Mine. You can't find ayry man round here to 
 buy out your interest in that thar heap er stun 
 an the hole it cum out of. It '11 cost you 
 more 'n the hul 's wuth ef you go down to 
 San Frisco and wait tell some fool comes along 
 what 's got gold he wants to buy quartz with. 
 Take time now, I 'm goan to make yer a fair 
 banter." 
 
 " Well, make it." 
 
 " I stump you to a clean swap. My hoss agin 
 your mine." 
 
 " Done," said I. 
 
 " I allowed you 'd do it. This here is one er 
 them swaps, when both sides gits stuck. I git 
 the Foolonner Mine, what I can't make go, and 
 you '11 be a fool on a crittur what '11 go a heap 
 more 'n you '11 want. Haw ! haw ! " 
 
 And Gerrian laughed a Pike's laugh at his 
 pun. It was a laugh that had been stunted in 
 its childhood by the fever and ague, and so had 
 grown up husk without heart. 
 
 " Have the black caught," said I, " and we '11 
 clinch the bargain at once." 
 
 There was a Mexican vaquero slouching about. 
 Gerrian called to him. 
 
 " Hozay ! kesty Sinyaw cumprader curwol
 
 GEKRIAN'S RANCH. 21 
 
 yow nigereeto. Wamos addelanty ! Corral ciir- 
 wolyose toethoso ! " 
 
 Pike Spanish that ! If the Mexicans choose to 
 understand it, why should Pikes study CastiHan ? 
 But we must keep a sharp look-out on the new 
 words that come to us from California, else our 
 new language will be full of foundlings with no 
 traceable parentage. We should beware of heap- 
 ing up problems for the lexicographers of the 
 twentieth century : they ought to be free for har- 
 monizing the universal language, half-Teutonic, 
 half-Romanic, with little touches of Mandingo 
 and Mandan. 
 
 The bukkarer, as Gerrian's Spanish entitled 
 Hozay, comprehended enough of the order to 
 know that he was to drive up the horses. He 
 gave me a Mexican's sulky stare, muttered a ca- 
 ramba at my rashness, and lounged off, first tak- 
 ing a lasso from its peg in the court. 
 
 " Come in, stranger," said Gerrian, " before we 
 start, and take a drink of some of this here Mis- 
 sion Dolorous wine." 
 
 " How does that go down ? " said he, pouring 
 out golden juices into a cracked tumbler. 
 
 It was the veiy essence of California sunshine, 
 
 — sherry with a richness that no sherry ever had, 
 
 — a somewhat fiery beverage, but without any 
 harshness or crudity. Age would better it, as 
 age betters the work of a young genius ; but still
 
 22 JOKN BEENT. 
 
 tnere is something in the youth wd would not wil- 
 lingly resign. 
 
 " Very fine," said I ; "it is romantic old Spain, 
 with ardent young America interfused." 
 
 " Some likes it," says Gerrian ; " but taint like 
 good old Argee to me. I can't git nothin' as 
 sweet as the taste of yaller corn into sperit. But 
 I reckon thar ken be stuff made out er grapes 
 what '11 make aU owdoors stan' round. This yer 
 wuz made by the priests. What ken you spect 
 of priests ? They ain't more 'n haff men nohow. 
 I 'm goan to plant a wineyard er my own, and 
 'fore you cum out to buy another quartz mine, 
 I '11 hev some of ther strychnine what 'U wax 
 Burbon County 's much 's our inyans here ken 
 wax them low-lived smellers what they grow to 
 old Pike."
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 DON FULANO. 
 
 Hector of Troy, Homer's Hector, was my first 
 hero in literature. Not because he loved his 
 wife and she him, as I fancy that noble wives 
 and husbands love in the times of trial now ; but 
 simply because he was Hippodamos, one that 
 could master the horse. 
 
 As soon as I knew Hector, I began to emulate 
 him. My boyish experiments were on donkeys, 
 and failed. "I could n't wallop 'em. no, 
 no ! " That was my difficulty. Had I but met 
 an innocent and docile donkey in his downy 
 years ! Alas ! only the perverted donkey, bristly 
 and incorrigible, came under my tutorship. I 
 was too humane to give him stick enough, and so 
 he mastered me. 
 
 Horses I learned to govern by the law of love. 
 The relation of friendship once established be- 
 tween man and horse, there is no trouble. A 
 centaur is created. The man wills whither ; the 
 horse, at the will of his better half, does his best 
 to go thither. I became, very early, Hippodamos,
 
 24 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 not by force, but by kindness. All lower beings, 
 — fiendish beings apart, — unless spoilt by treach- 
 ery, seek the society of the higher ; as man, by 
 nature, loves God. Horses will do all they know 
 for men, if man will only let them. All they 
 need is a slight hint to help their silly willhig 
 brains, and they dash with ardor at their business 
 of galloping a mile a minute, or twenty miles an 
 hour, or of leaping a gully, or pulling tonnage. 
 They put so much reckless, break-neck frenzy in 
 their attempt to please and obey the royal per- 
 sonage on their back, that he needs to be brave 
 indeed to go thoroughly with them. 
 
 The finer the horse, the more delicate the mag- 
 netism between him and man. Knight and his 
 steed have an afiinity for each other. I fancied 
 that Gerrian's black, after our mutual friendly 
 recognition on the prairie, would like me better 
 as our intimacy grew. 
 
 After hobnobbing with cracked tumblers of the 
 Mission Dolores wine, Gerrian and I mounted 
 our mustangs and rode toward the corral. 
 
 All about on the broad slopes, the ranchero's 
 countless cattle were feeding. It was a patri- 
 archal scene. The local patriarch, in a red flan- 
 nel shirt purpled by sun and shower, in old 
 buckskin breeches with the fringe worn away 
 and decimated along its files whenever a thong 
 was wanted, in red-topped boots with the
 
 DON FULANO. 25 
 
 maker's name, Abel Cusliiug, Lynn, Mass., 
 stamped in gilt letters on the red, — in such 
 costume the local patriarch hardly recalled those 
 turbaned and white-robed sheiks of yore, Abra- 
 ham and his Isaac. But he represented the 
 same period of history modernized, and the 
 same type of man Americanized ; and I have 
 no doubt his posterity will turn out better than 
 Abraham's, and scorn peddling, be it Austrian 
 loans or " ole clo'." 
 
 The cattle scampered away from us, as we 
 rode, hardly less wild than the buffaloes on the 
 Platte. Whenever we rose on the crest of a 
 hillock, we could see several thousands of the 
 little fierce bullocks, — some rolling away in 
 flight, in a black breadth, like a shaken carpet ; 
 some standing in little groups, like field officers 
 at a review, watching the movements as squad- 
 ron after squadron came and went over the 
 scene ; some, as arbitrators and spectators, sur- 
 rounding a pair of champion bulls butting and 
 bellowing in some amphitheatre among the 
 swells of land. 
 
 " I tell you what it is, stranger," said Ger- 
 rian, halting and looking proudly over the land- 
 scape, " I would n't swop my place with General 
 Price at the White House." 
 
 "I should think not," said I; "bullocks are 
 better company than office-seekers." 
 
 2
 
 26 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 It was a grand, simple scene. All open coun- 
 try, north and south, as far as the eye could see. 
 Eastward rose the noble blue barrier of the Si- 
 erra, with here and there a field, a slope, a spot, 
 or a pinnacle of the snow that names it Nevada. 
 A landscape of larger feeling than any we can 
 show in the old States, on the tame side of the 
 continent. Those rigorous mountain outlines 
 on the near horizon utterly dwarf all our wood- 
 ed hills, Alleghanies, Greens, Whites. A race 
 trained within sight of sucli loftiness of nature 
 must needs be a loftier race than any this land 
 has yet known. Put cheap types of mankind 
 within the influence of the sublimities, and they 
 are cowed ; but the great-hearted expand with 
 vaster visions. A great snow-peak, like one of 
 the Tacomas of Oregon, is a terrible monitor 
 over a land ; but it is also a benignant sover- 
 eign, a presence, calm, solemn, yet not without 
 a cheering and jubilant splendor. A range of 
 sharp, peremptory mountains, like the Sierra Ne- 
 vada, insists upon taking thought away from the 
 grovelling flats where men do their grubbing for 
 the bread of daily life, and up to tlie master 
 heights, whither in all ages seers have gone to 
 be nearer mystery and God. 
 
 It was late August. All the tall grass and wild 
 oats and barley, over lift, level, and hollow, were 
 ripe yellow or warm brown, — a golden mantle
 
 DON FULANO. ■ 27 
 
 over the goldeu soil. There were but two colors 
 m the simple, broad picture, — clear, deep, scin- 
 tillating blue in the sky, melting blue in the 
 mountains, and all the earth a golden surging 
 sea. 
 
 " It 's a bigger country 'n old Pike or Missourer 
 anywhar," says Gerrian, giving his 'curwolyow' 
 the spur. " I 'd ruther hev this, even ef the 
 shakes wuz here instidd of thar, and liavin' their 
 grab regiar twicet a day all the year round." 
 
 As we rode on, our ponies half hidden in the 
 dry, rustling grass of a hollow, a tramp of hoofs 
 came to us with the wind, — a thrilling sound ! 
 with something free and vigorous in it that the 
 charge of trained squadrons never has. 
 
 " Thar they come ! " cried Gerrian ; " thar 's a 
 rigiment wuth seeing. They can't show you a 
 sight like that to the old States." 
 
 " No indeed. The best thing to be hoped there 
 in the way of stampede is when a horse kicks 
 through a dash-board, kills a coachman, shatters 
 a carriage, dissipates a load of women and chil- 
 dren, and goes tearing down a turnpike, with 
 ' sold to an omnibus ' awaiting him at the end of 
 his run-away ! " 
 
 We halted to pass the coming army of riderless 
 steeds in review. 
 
 There they came ! Gerrian's whole band of 
 horses in full career ! First, their heads suddenly
 
 28 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 lifted above a crest of the prairie ; then they 
 burst over, like the foam and spray of a black, 
 stormy wave when a blast strikes it, and wildly 
 swept by us with manes and tails flaring in the 
 wind. It was magnificent. My heart of a horse- 
 man leaped in my breast. " Hurrah ! " I cried. 
 
 " Hurrah 't is ! " said Gerrian. 
 
 The herd dashed by in a huddle, making for 
 the corral. 
 
 Just behind, aloof from the rush and scamper 
 of his less noble brethren, came the black, my 
 purchase, my old friend. 
 
 " Ef you ever ride or back that curwolyow," 
 says Gerrian, " I '11 eat a six-shooter, loaded and 
 capped." 
 
 " You 'd better begin, then, at once," rejoined 
 I, " whetting your teeth on Derringers. I mean 
 to ride him, and you shall be by when I do it." 
 
 It was grand to see a horse that understood 
 and respected himself so perfectly. One, too, 
 that meant the world should know that he was 
 the very chiefest chief of his race, proud with 
 the blood of a thousand kings. How masterly 
 he looked ! How untamably he stepped ! The 
 herd was galloping furiously. He disdained to 
 break into a gaUop. He trotted after, a hundred 
 feet behind the hindmost, with large and liberal 
 action. And even at this half speed easily over- 
 taking his slower comrades, he from time to time
 
 DON FULANO. 29 
 
 paused, bounded in the air, tossed his head, 
 flung out his legs, and then strode on again, 
 writhing all over with suppressed power. 
 
 There was not a white spot upon him, except 
 where a flake of foam from his indignant nostril 
 had caught upon Ms flank. A thorough-bred 
 horse, with the perfect tail and silky mane of a 
 noble race. His coat glistened, as if the best 
 groom in England had just given him the iinal 
 touches of his toilette for a canter in Kotten 
 Row. But it seems a sin to compare such a free 
 rover of the prairie with any less favored brother, 
 who needs a groom, and has felt a currycomb. 
 
 Hard after the riderless horses came Jos^, 
 the vaquero, on a fast mustang. As he rode, he 
 whirled his lasso with easy turn of the wrist. 
 
 The black, trottmg still, and halting still to 
 curvet and caracole, turned back his head con- 
 temptuously at his pursuer. " Mexicans may 
 chase their own ponies and break their spirit by 
 brutality ; but an American horse is no more 
 to be touched by a Mexican than an American 
 man. Bah! make your cast! Dont trifle with 
 your lasso ! I challenge you. Jerk away, Sefior 
 Greaser ! I give you as fair a chance as you 
 could wish." 
 
 So the black seemed to say, with his provoking 
 backward glance and his whinny of disdain. 
 
 Jos6 took the hint. He dug cruel spurs into
 
 30 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 his horse. The mustang leaped forward. The 
 black gave a tearing bound and quickened his 
 pace, but still waited the will of his pursuer. 
 
 They were just upon us, chased and chaser, 
 thundering down the slope, when the vaquero, 
 checking his wrist at the turn, flung his lasso 
 itraight as an arrow for the black's head. 
 
 I could hear the hide rope sing through the 
 Bummer air, for a moment breezeless. 
 
 Will he be taken! Will horse or man be 
 victor ! 
 
 The loop of the lasso opened like a hoop. It 
 hung poised for one instant a few feet before the 
 horse's head, vibrating m the air, keeping its 
 circle perfect, waiting for the vaquero's pull to 
 tighten about that proud neck and those swelling 
 shoulders. 
 
 Hurrah ! 
 
 Through it went the black. 
 
 With one brave bound he dashed through the 
 open loop. He touched only to spurn its vain 
 assault with his hindmost hoof. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " I cried. 
 
 " Hurrah ! 't is," shouted Gerrian. 
 
 Jos^ dragged in his spurned lasso. 
 
 The black, with elated head, and tail waving 
 like a banner, sprang forward, closed in with the 
 caballada; they parted for his passage, he took 
 his leadership, and presently was lost with liig 
 Buite over the swells of the prairie.
 
 DON FULANO. 31 
 
 " Mucho malicho ! " cried Gerrian to Jos^, 
 not knowing that his Californian Spanish was in- 
 terpreting Hamlet. " He ought to hev druv 'em 
 straight tc corral. But I don't feel so sharp set 
 on lettin' you hev that black after that shine. 
 Reg'lar circus, only thar never was no sich seen 
 in no circus ! You '11 never ride him, allowin' 
 he 's cotched, no more 'n you HI ride a alhgator." 
 
 Meantime, loping on, we had come in sight of 
 the corral. There, to our great surprise, the 
 whole band of horses had voluntarily entered. 
 They were putting their heads together as the 
 manner of social horses is, and going through 
 kissing manoeuvres in little knots, which pres- 
 ently were broken up by the heels of some ill- 
 mannered or jealous brother. They were very 
 probably discussing the black's act of horseman- 
 ship, as men after the ballet discuss the first enr 
 trechat of the danseuse. 
 
 We rode up and fastened our horses. The 
 black was within the cort-al, pawing the ground, 
 neighing, and whinnying. His companions kept 
 at a respectful distance. 
 
 " Don't send in Jos^ ! " said I to Gerrian. 
 " Only let him keep off the horses, so that I shall 
 not be kicked, and I will try my hand at the 
 black alone." 
 
 " I '11 hev 'em all turned out except that black 
 devil, and then you ken go in and take your cwn
 
 32 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 resk with him. Akkee Jose ! " continued the ran- 
 chero, " fwarer toethose ! Day her hel diablo ! " 
 
 Josd drove the herd out of the staked enclos- 
 ure. The black showed no special disposition 
 to follow. He trotted about at his ease, snuffing 
 at the stakes and bars. 
 
 I entered alone. Presently he began to repeat 
 the scene of our first meeting on the prairie. It 
 was not many minutes before we were good 
 friends. He would bear my caresses and my arm 
 about his neck, and that was all for an hour. 
 At last, after a good hour's work, I persuaded 
 him to accept a halter. Then by gentle seduc- 
 tions I induced him to start and accompany me 
 homeward. 
 
 Gerrian and the Mexican looked on in great 
 wonderment. 
 
 " Praps that is the best way," said the modern 
 patriarch, " ef a man has got patience. Looker 
 here, stranger, ain't you a terrible fellow among 
 women ? " 
 
 I confessed my want of experience. 
 
 " Well, you will be when your time comes. I 
 allowed from seeing you handle that thar boss, 
 that you had got your hand in on women, — 
 they is the wust devils to tame I ever seed." 
 
 I had made my arrangements to start about 
 the first of September, with the Sacramento mail-
 
 DON FULANO. 83 
 
 riders, a brace of jolly dogs, brave fellows, who, 
 with their scalps as well secured as might be, ran 
 the gauntlet every alternate month to Salt Lake. 
 That was long before the days of coaches. No 
 pony express was dreamed of. A trip across the 
 plains, without escort or caravan, had still some 
 elements of heroism, if it have not to-day. 
 
 Meantime one of my ardent partners from 
 San Francisco arrived to take my place at the 
 mine. 
 
 " I don't think that quartz looks quite so goldy 
 as it did at a distance," said he. 
 
 " Well," said old Gerrian, who had come over 
 to take possession of his share of our bargain ; 
 " it is whiter 'n it 's yaller. It does look about 
 as bad off fur slugs as the cellar of an Indiana 
 bank. But I b'leeve in luck, and luck is olluz 
 comin' at me with its head down and both eyes 
 shet. I 'm goan to shove bullocks down this here 
 hole, or the price of bullocks, until I make it 
 pay." 
 
 And it is a fact, that by the aid of Gerrian' s 
 capital, and improved modern machinery, after a 
 long struggle, the Fulano mine has begun to yield 
 a sober, quiet profit. 
 
 My wooing of the black occupied all my leisure 
 
 during my last few days. Every day, a circle of 
 
 Pikes collected to see my management. I hope 
 
 they took lessons in the law of kindness. The 
 
 8* o
 
 34 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 horse was well known throughout the country, 
 and my bargain with Gerrian was noised abroad. 
 
 The black would tolerate no one but me. With 
 me he established as close a brotherhood as can 
 be between man and beast. He gave me to un- 
 derstand, by playful protest, that it was only by 
 his good pleasure that I was permitted on his 
 back, and that he endured saddle and bridle ; as 
 to spur or whip, they were not thought of by 
 either. He did not obey, but consented. I ex- 
 ercised no control. We were of one mind. We 
 became a Centaur. I loved that horse as I have 
 loved nothing else yet, except the other person- 
 ages with whom and for whom he acted in this 
 history. 
 
 I named him Don Fulano. 
 
 I had put my mine into him. He represented 
 to me the whole visible, tangible result of two 
 long, workaday years, dragged out in that dreary 
 spot among the Pikes, with nothing in view ex- 
 cept barren hill-sides ravaged by mines, and the 
 unbeautiful shanties of miners as rough as the 
 landscape. 
 
 Don Fulano, a horse that would not sell, was 
 my profit for the sternest and roughest work of 
 my life ! I looked at him, and looked at the 
 mine, that pile of pretty pebbles, that pile of 
 bogus ore, and I did not regret my bargain. I 
 never have regretted it. " My kingdom for a
 
 DON FULANO. Zh 
 
 horse," — so much of a kingdom as I had, I 
 had given. 
 
 But was that all I had gained, — an unsalable 
 horse for two years' work? All, — unless, per- 
 haps, I conclude to calculate the incalculable ; 
 unless I estimate certain moral results I had 
 grasped, and have succeeded in keeping ; unless 
 I determine to value patience, purpose, and pluck 
 by dollars and cents. However, I have said 
 enough of myself, and my share in the prepara- 
 tions for the work of my story. 
 
 Retire, then, Richard Wade, and enter the real 
 hero of the tale.
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 A MAN who does not love luxury is merely an 
 incomplete man, or, if he prefers, an ignoramus. 
 A man who cannot dispense with luxury, and 
 who does not love hard fare, hard bed, hard 
 travel, and all manner of robust, vigorous, tense 
 work, is a weakling and a soft. Sybaris is a 
 pretty town, rose-leaves are a dehcate mattrass, 
 Lydian measures are dulcet to soul and body : 
 also, the wilderness is "no mean city"; hemlock 
 or heather for couch, brocken for curtain, are not 
 cruelty ; prairie gales are a brave lullaby for 
 adults. 
 
 Simple furniture and simple fare a campaigner 
 needs for the plains, — for chamber furniture, a 
 pair of blankets ; for kitchen furniture, a frying- 
 pan and a coffee-pot ; for table furniture, a tin 
 mug and his bowie-knife : Sybaris adds a tin 
 plate, a spoon, and even a fork. The list of pro- 
 visions is as short, — pork, flour, and coffee ; that 
 is all, unless Sybaris should indulge in a modi- 
 cum of tea, a dose or two of sugar, and a vial 
 cf vinegar for holidays.
 
 JOHN BRENT, • 37 
 
 1 had several days for preparation, until my 
 companions, the mail-riders, should arrive. One 
 morning I was busy making up my packs of such 
 luxuries as I have mentioned for the journey, 
 when I heard the clatter of horses' feet, and ob- 
 served a stranger approach and ride up to the 
 door of my shanty. He was mounted upon a 
 powerful iron-gray horse, and drove a pack mule 
 and an Indian pony. 
 
 My name was on an elaborately painted shingle 
 over the door. It was my own handiwork, and 
 quite a lion in that region. I felt, whenever I 
 inspected that bit of high art, that, fail or win at 
 the mine, I had a resource. Indeed, my Pike 
 neighbors seemed to consider that I was unjusti- 
 fiably burying my artistic talents. Many a not 
 unseemly octagonal slug, with Moffatt & Co.'s 
 imprimatur of value, had been offered me if I 
 would paint up some miner's hell, as "The 
 True Paradise," or " The Shades and Caffy de 
 Paris." 
 
 The new-comer read my autograph on the 
 shingle, looked about, caught sight of me at 
 work in the hot shade, dismounted, fastened his 
 horses, and came toward me. It was not the 
 fashion in California, at that time, to volunteer 
 civility or acquaintance. Men had to announce 
 themselves, and prove their claims. I sat where 
 I was, and surveyed the stranger.
 
 88 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " The Adonis of the copper-skins ! " I said to 
 myself. " This is the ' Young Eagle,' or the 
 ' Sucking Dove,' or the ' Maiden's Bane,' or 
 some other great chief of the cleanest Lidian 
 tribe on the continent. A beautiful youth ! 
 Fenimore, why are you dead ! There are a 
 dozen romances in one look of that young brave. 
 One chapter might be written on his fringed 
 buckskin shirt ; one on his equally fringed leg- 
 gings, with tlieir stripe of porcupine-quills ; and 
 one short chapter on his moccasons, with their 
 scarlet cloth instep-piece, and his cap of otter fur 
 decked with an eagle's feather. What a poem 
 the fellow is ! I wish I was an Indian myself for 
 such a companion ; or, better, a squaw, to be 
 made love to by him." 
 
 As he approached, I perceived that he was 
 not copper, but bronze. A pale-face certainly! 
 That is, a pale-face tinged by the brazen sun of 
 a California summer. Not less handsome, how- 
 ever, as a Saxon, than an Indian brave. As 
 soon as I identified him as one of my own race 
 I began to fancy I had seen him before. 
 
 " If he were but shaved and clijDped, black- 
 coated, booted, gloved, hatted with a shiny cylin- 
 der, disarmed of his dangerous looking arsenal 
 and armed with a plaything of a cane, — in short 
 if he were metamorphosed from a knight-errant 
 into a carpet-knight, changed from a smooth
 
 JOHN BRENT. 39 
 
 rough into a smooth smooth, — seems to me I 
 should know him, or know that I had kiiown 
 him once." 
 
 He came up, laid his hand familiarly on my 
 arm, and said, " What, "Wade ? Don't you re- 
 member me ? John Brent." 
 
 " I hear your voice. I begin to see you now. 
 Hurrah ! " 
 
 " How was it I did not recognize you," said I, 
 after a fraternal greeting. 
 
 " Ten years have presented me with this for a 
 disguise," said he, giving his moustache a twirl. 
 " Ten years of experience have taken all the girl 
 out of me." 
 
 " What have you been doing these ten years, 
 since College, many-sided man ? " 
 
 " Grinding my sides against the Adamant, 
 every one." 
 
 " Has your diamond begun to see light, and 
 shine ? " 
 
 " The polishing-dust dims it still," 
 
 " How have you found life, kind or cruel ? " 
 
 " Certainly not kind, hardly cruel, unless in- 
 difference is cruelty." 
 
 " But indifference, want of sympathy, must 
 have been a positive relief after the aggressive 
 cruelty of your younger days." 
 
 " And what have you been doing, Richard ? " 
 
 " Everything that Yankees do, — digging last."
 
 40 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " That has been my business, too, as well as 
 polishing." 
 
 " The old work, I suppose, to root out lies 
 and plant in truth." 
 
 "That same slow task. Tunnelling too, to 
 find my way out of the prison of doubt into the 
 freedom of faith." 
 
 " You are out, then, at last. Happy and at 
 peace, I hope." 
 
 "At peace, hardly happy. How can such a 
 lonely fellow be happy ? " 
 
 " We are peers in bereavement now. My 
 family are all gone, except two little children 
 of my sister." 
 
 " Not quite peers. You remember your rela- 
 tives tenderly. I have no such comfort." 
 
 Odd talk this may seem, to hold with an old 
 friend. Ten years apart ! We ought to have 
 met in merrier mood. We might, if we had 
 parted with happy memories. But it was not 
 so. Youth had been a harsh season to Brent. 
 If Fate destines a man to teach, she compels him 
 to learn, — bitter lessons, too, whether he will or 
 no. Brent was a man of genius. All experi 
 ence, therefore, piled itself upon him. He must 
 learn the immortal consolations by probing all 
 suifering himself. 
 
 Brent's story is a short one or a long one. li 
 can be told in a page, or in a score of volumes
 
 JOHN BRENT. il 
 
 We Lad met fourteen years before in the same 
 pew of Berkeley College Chapel, grammars by 
 our side and tutors before us, two well-crammed 
 candidates for the Freshman Class. Brent was 
 a delicate, beautiful, dreamy boy. My counter- 
 part. I was plain prose, and needed the poetic 
 element. We became friends. I was steady; 
 he was erratic. I was calm ; he was passionate. 
 I was reasonably happy ; he was totally miser- 
 able. For good cause. 
 
 The cause was this ; and it has broken weaker 
 hearts than Brent's. His heart was made of 
 stuff that does not know how to break. 
 
 Dr. Swerger was the cause of Brent's misery. 
 The Reverend Dr. Swerger was a brutal man. 
 One who believes that God is vengeance natu- 
 rally imitates his God, and does not better his 
 model. 
 
 Swerger was Brent's step-father. Mrs. Brent 
 was pretty, silly, rich, and a widow. Swerger 
 wanted his wife pretty, and not too wise ; and 
 that she was rich balanced, perhaps a little more 
 than balanced, the slight objection of widow- 
 hood. 
 
 Swerger naturally hated his step-son. One in- 
 tuition of Brent's was worth all the thoughts of 
 Swerger' s life-time. A clergyman who starts 
 with believing in hells, devils, original sin, and 
 such crudities, can never be anything in the nme-
 
 42 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 teentli century but a tyrant or a nuisance, if lie 
 has any logic, as fortunately few of such misbe- 
 lievers have. Swerger had logic. So had the 
 boy Brent, — the logic of a true, pure, loving 
 heart. He could not stand Swerger's coming 
 into his dead father's house and deluding his 
 JBother with a black fanaticism. 
 
 So Swerger gave him to understand that he 
 was a child of hell. He won his wife to shrink 
 from her son. Between them they lacerated the 
 boy. He was a brilliant fellow, quite the king 
 of us all. But he worked under a cloud. He 
 could not get at any better religion than Swer- 
 ger's; and perhaps there was none better — or 
 much better — to be had at that time. 
 
 One day matters came to a quarrel. Swerger 
 cursed his step-son ; of course not in the same 
 terms the sailors used on Long "Wharf, but with 
 no better spirit. The mother, cowed by her 
 husband, backed him, and abandoned the boy. 
 They drove him out of the house, to go where he 
 would. He came to me. I gave him half my 
 quarters, and tried to cheer him. No use. This 
 bitter wrong to his love to God and to man al- 
 most crushed him. He brooded and despaired. 
 He began to fancy himself the lost soul Swerger 
 had callbd him. I saw that he would die or go 
 mad ; or, if he had strength enough to react, it 
 would be toward a hapless rebellion against con-
 
 JOHN BRENT. 43 
 
 ventional laws, and so make his blight ruin. 1 
 hurried him off to Europe, for change of scene. 
 That was ten years ago, and I had not seen him 
 since. I knew, however, that his mother was 
 visited by compunctions ; that she wished to be 
 reconciled to her son ; that Swerger refused, and 
 renewed his anathemas ; that he bullied the poor 
 little woman to death ; that Brent had to wring 
 the property out of him by a long lawsuit, which 
 the Swergerites considered an unconstitutional 
 and devilish proceeding, another proof of total 
 depravity. Miserable business ! It went near to 
 crush all the innocence, faith, hope, and religion 
 out of my friend's life. 
 
 Of course this experience had a tendency to 
 drive Brent out of the common paths, to make 
 him a seer instead of a doer. The vulgar can- 
 not comprehend that, when a man is selected by 
 character and circumstance, acting together un- 
 der the name of destiny, to be a seer, he must 
 see to the end before he begins to say what he 
 sees, to be a guide, a monitor, and a helper. The 
 vulgar, therefore, called Brent a wasted life, a 
 man of genius manque, a pointless investigator, a 
 purposeless dreamer. The vulgar loves to make 
 up its mind prematurely. The vulgar cannot 
 abide a man who lives a blameless life so far as 
 personal conduct goes, and yet declines to accept 
 worldly tests of success, worldly principles of
 
 44 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 action. K a man rebels against laws, and takes 
 the side of vice, that the vulgar can comprehend ; 
 but rebellion on the side of virtue is revolution- 
 ary, destroys all the old landmarks, must be 
 crucified. 
 
 Brent, therefore, boy and man, had had tough 
 experience. I knew of his career, though we 
 had not met. He had wished and attempted, 
 perhaps prematurely, to make his fine genius of 
 definite use. He wanted to make the nation's 
 prayers ; but the Swergerites pronounced his 
 prayers Paganism. He wanted to put the na- 
 tion's holiest thoughts into poetry ; they called 
 his poetry impious. He wanted to stir up the 
 young men of his day to a franker stand on the 
 side of genuine liberty, and a keener hatred of 
 all slavery, and so to uphold chivalry and hero- 
 ism ; the cynical people scoffed, they said he 
 would get over his boyish folly, that he ought 
 to have lived before Bayard, or half-way through 
 the millennium, but that the kind of stuff he 
 preached and wrote with such unnecessary fer- 
 vor did not suit the nineteenth century, a prac- 
 tical country and a practical age. 
 
 So Brent paused in his work. The boyhood's 
 unquestioning ardor went out of him. The in- 
 terregnum between youth and complete man- 
 hood came. He gave up his unripe attempt to 
 be a doer, and turned seer again. Observation
 
 JOHN BRENT. 4. 
 
 is the proper business of a man's third decade ; 
 the less a spokesman has to say about his results 
 until thirty, the better, unless he wants to eat 
 his words, or to sustain outgrown formulas. Brent 
 discovered this, and went about the world still 
 pointless, purposeless, manque, as they said, — 
 minding his own business, getting his facts. His 
 fortune made him independent. He could go 
 where he pleased. 
 
 This was the man who rode up on the iron- 
 gray horse. This was the Lidianesque Saxon 
 who greeted me. It put color and poetry into 
 my sulky life to see him. 
 
 " Off, old fellow ? " said Brent, pointing his 
 whip at my traps. " I can't hear him squeak, 
 but I 'm sure there is pig in that gunny-bag, 
 and flour in that sack. I hope you 're not away 
 for a long trip just as I have come to squat with 
 you." 
 
 " No longer than home across the plains." 
 
 " Bravo ! then we '11 ride together, instead of 
 squatting together. Instead of your teaching 
 me quartz-mining, I '11 guide you across the 
 Rocky s." 
 
 " You know the way, then." 
 
 " Every foot of it. Last fall I hunted up from 
 Mexico and New Mexico with an English friend. 
 We made winter head-quarters with Captain Ru- 
 by at Fort Laramie, knocking about all winter
 
 46 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 in that neighborhood, and at the North among 
 the Wind River Mountains. Early in tlie spring 
 we went off toward Luggernel Alley and the 
 Luggernel Springs, and camped there for a 
 month." 
 
 " Luggernel Alley ! Luggernel Springs ! Those 
 are new names to me ; in fact, my Rocky Moun- 
 tain geography is naught." 
 
 " You ought to see them. Luggernel Alley is 
 one of the wonders of this continent." 
 
 So / think now that I have seen it. It was 
 odd too, what afterward I remembered as a coin- 
 cidence, that our first talk should have turned 
 to a spot where we were to do and to suffer, by 
 and by. 
 
 " There is something Frenchy in the name 
 Luggernel," said I. 
 
 " Yes ; it is a corruption of La Grenouille. 
 There was a famous Canadian trapper of that 
 name, or nickname. He discovered the springs. 
 The Alley, a magnificent gorge, grand as the Via 
 Mala, leads to them. I will describe the whole 
 to you at length, some time." 
 
 " Who was your English friend ? " 
 
 " Sir Biron Biddulph, — a capital fellow, pink 
 in the cheeks, warm in the heart, strong in the 
 shanks, mighty on the hunt," 
 
 " Huntmg for love of it ? " 
 
 *' No ; for love itself, or rather the lack of love.
 
 JOHN BEENT. 47 
 
 A lovely lady in his native Lancashire would not 
 smile ; so he turned butcher of buffalo, bears, 
 and big-horn." 
 
 " Named he the ' fair but frozen maid ' ? " 
 
 " Never. It seems there is something hapless 
 or tragic about her destiny. She did not love 
 him ; so he came away to forget her. He made 
 no secret of it. We arrived in Utah last July, 
 on our way to see California. There he got let- 
 ters from home, announcing, as he told me, some 
 coming misfortune to the lady. As a friend, no 
 longer a lover, he proposed to do what he could 
 to avert the danger. I left him in Salt Lake, 
 preparing to return, and came across country 
 alone." 
 
 " Alone ! through the Indian country, with 
 that tempting iron-gray, those tempting packs, 
 that tempting scalp, with its love-locks ! Why, 
 the sight of your scalp alone would send a thrill 
 through every Indian heart from Bear Eiver to 
 the Dalles of the Columbia ! Perhaps, by the 
 way, you 've been scalped already, and are safe?" 
 
 " No ; the mop 's my own mop. Scalp 's all 
 right. Wish I could say the same of the brains. 
 The Indians would not touch me. I am half 
 savage, you know. In this and my former trip, 
 I have become a privileged character, — some- 
 thing of a medicine-man." 
 
 " I suppose you can talk to them. You used 
 to have the gift of tongues."
 
 48 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " Yes ; I have choked down two or three of 
 their guttural Ungos, and can sputter them up 
 as easily as I used to gabble iambic trimeters, I 
 like the fellows. They are not ideal heroes ; they 
 have not succeeded in developing a civilization, 
 or in adopting ours, and therefore I suppose they 
 must go down, as pine-trees go down to make 
 room for tougher stalks and fruitier growth : but 
 I like the fellows, and don't believe in their utter 
 deviltry. I have always given the dogs a good 
 name, and they have been good dogs to me. I 
 like thorough men, too ; and what an Lidian 
 knows, he knows, so that it is a part of him. It 
 is a good corrective for an artificial man to find 
 himself less of a man, under certain difficulties, 
 than a child of nature. You know this, of course, 
 as well as I do." 
 
 " Yes ; we campaigners get close to the heart 
 of Mother Nature, and she teaches us, tenderly 
 or roughly, but thoroughly. By the way, how 
 did you find me out ? " 
 
 " I heard some Pikes, at a camp last night, 
 talking of a person who had sold a quartz mine 
 for a wonderful horse. I asked the name. They 
 told me yours, and directed me here. Except for 
 this talk, I should have gone down to San Fran- 
 cisco, and missed you." 
 
 " Lucky horse ! He brings old friends to- 
 gether, — a good omen ! Come and see him."
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 ACROSS COUNTRY. 
 
 I LED my friend toward the corral. 
 
 " A fine horse that gray of yours," said I. 
 
 " Yes ; a splendid fellow, — stanch and tru6 
 He wiU go till he dies." 
 
 " In tip-top condition, too. What do you call 
 him ? " 
 
 " Pumps." 
 
 "Why Pumps? Wliy not Pistons ? or Cranks? 
 or Walking-Beams ? or some part of the steam- 
 engine that does the going directly ? " 
 
 " You have got the wi'ong clue. I named him 
 after our old dancing-master. Pumps the horse 
 has a favorite amble, precisely like that skipping 
 walk that Pumps the man used to set us for 
 model, — a mincing gait, that prejudiced me, 
 until I saw what a stride he kept for the time 
 when stride was wanting." 
 
 " Here is my black gentleman. What do you 
 think of him ? " 
 
 Don Fulano trotted up and licked a handful 
 of corn from my hand. Corn was four dollars
 
 60 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 a bushel. The profits of the "Foolonner" Mine 
 did not allow of such luxuries. But old Genian 
 had presented me with a sack of it. 
 
 Fulano crunched his corn, snorted his thanks, 
 and then snuffed questioningly, and afterwards 
 approvingly, about the stranger, 
 
 " Soul and body of Bucephalus ! "- says Brent. 
 " There is a quadruped that is a hoese." 
 
 " Is n't he ? " said I, thrilling with pride for 
 him. 
 
 " To look at such a fellow is a romance. He 
 is the most beautiful thing I ever saw." 
 
 " No exceptions ? " 
 
 "Not one." 
 
 " "Woman ! lovely woman ! " I cried, with 
 mock enthusiasm. 
 
 " If I had ever seen a woman to compare with 
 that horse, after her kind, I should not be here." 
 
 " Where then ? " 
 
 " Wherever she was. Living for her. Dying 
 for her. Chasing her if she were dragged from 
 me. Snatching her from the jaws of death." 
 
 " Hold hard ! You talk as furiously as if you 
 saw such a scene before your eyes." 
 
 " Your horse brings up all the chivalric tales 
 I have ever read. If these were knightly days, 
 and two brothers in arms, like you and myself, 
 ever rescued distressed damsels from the grip of 
 caitiffs vile, we ought to be mounted upon a pair
 
 ACROSS COUNTRY. 51 
 
 of Don Fulanos when we rode the miscreants 
 down." 
 
 The fine sensitiveness of a poetic man like 
 Brent makes a prophet of him, — that is to say, 
 a man who has the poet's delicate insight into 
 character anticipates everything that character 
 will do. So Brent was never surprised ; though 
 I confess I was, when I found men, horses, and 
 places doing what he had hinted long before. 
 
 " Well," continued I, '' I paid two years' work 
 for my horse. Was it too much ? Is he worth 
 it?" 
 
 " Everything is worth whatever one gives for 
 it. The less you get, the more you get. Proved 
 by the fact that the price of all life is death. Ja- 
 cob served seven years for an ugly wife ; why 
 should n't an honester man serve two for a beau- 
 tiful horse ? " 
 
 " Jacob, however, had a pretty wife thrown in 
 when he showed discontent." 
 
 " Perhaps you will. If the Light of the Harem 
 of Sultan Brigham should see you prancing on 
 that steed, she would make one bound to your 
 crupper and leave a dark where the Liglit was." 
 
 " I do not expect to develop a taste for Mor- 
 mon ladies." 
 
 "It is not very likely. They are a second- 
 hand set. But still one can imagine some luck- 
 less girl with a doltish father; some old chap
 
 ^ JOHN BRENT. 
 
 vno aad outlived his hopes at home, and fancied 
 he was going to be Melchisedec, Moses, and 
 Abraham, rolled into one, in Utah, toted out 
 there by some beastly Elder, who wanted the 
 daughter for his thirteenth. That would be a 
 chance for you and Don Fulano to interfere. 
 I '11 promise you myself and Pumps, if you 
 want to stampede anybody's wives from the New 
 Jerusalem as we go through." 
 
 "I suppose we have no time to lose, if we ex- 
 pect to make Missouri before winter." 
 
 "No. "We will start as soon as you are 
 ready." 
 
 " To-morrow morning, if you please." 
 
 " To-morrow it is." 
 
 To-morrow it was. Having a comrade, I need 
 not wait for the mail-riders. Lucky that I did 
 not. They came only three days after us. But 
 on the Humboldt, the Indians met them, and 
 obliged them to doff the tops of their heads, as a 
 mark of respect to Indian civilization. 
 
 "We started, two men and seven animals. 
 Each of us had a pack mule and a roadster 
 pony, with a spare one, in case accident should 
 befall either of his wiry brethren. 
 
 Pumps and Fulano, as good friends as their 
 masters, trotted along without burden. We rode 
 them rarely. Only often enough to remind
 
 ACROSS COUNTRY. 
 
 U 
 
 them how a saddle feels, and that danglmg legs 
 are not frightful. They must be fresh, if we 
 should ever have to run for it. We might; 
 Indians might cast fanciful glances at the tops 
 of our heads. The other horses might give out. 
 So Pumps, with his fantastic dancing-step, that 
 would not crush a grasshopper, and Fulano, 
 grander, prouder, and still untamable to any 
 one but me, went on waiting for their time of 
 action. 
 
 I skip the first thousand miles of our journey. 
 Not that it was not exciting, but it might be 
 anybody's journey. Myriads have made it. It 
 is an old story. I might perhaps make it a new 
 story ; but I crowd on now to the proper spot 
 where this drama is to be enacted. The play 
 halts while the scenes shift. 
 
 One figure fills up to my mind this whole 
 hiatus of the many-leagued skip. I see Brent 
 every step and every moment. He was a model 
 comrade. 
 
 Camp-life tests a man thoroughly. Common 
 toil, hardship, peril, and sternly common viaticum 
 of pork, dough-cakes, and cofiee sans everything, 
 are a daily ordeal of good-nature. It is not hard 
 for two men to be civil across a clean white table- 
 cloth at a club. If they feel dull, they can study 
 the carte ; if spiteful, they can row the steward ; 
 if surly, they can muddle themselves cheerful;
 
 M JOHN BRENT. 
 
 if they bore each other, finally and hopelessly 
 they can exchange cigars and part for all time, 
 and still be friends, not foes. But the illusions 
 of sham good-fellowship vanish when the aaa-te 
 du jour is pore frit au naturel, damper a discre- 
 tion, and cafS a rien, always the same fare, plain 
 days or lucky days, served on a blanket, on the 
 ground. 
 
 Brent and I stood the test. He was a model 
 comrade, cavalier, poet, hunter, naturahst, cook. 
 If there was any knowledge, skill, craft, or sleight 
 of hand or brain wanted, it always seemed as 
 if his whole life had been devoted to the one 
 etudy to gain it. He would spring out of his 
 6Unkets after a night under the stars, improvise 
 a matin song to Lucifer, sketch the mornmg's 
 view into cloudland and the morning's earthly 
 horizon, take a shot at a gray wolf, book a new 
 plant, bag. a new beetle, and then, reclining on 
 the lonely prairie, talk our breakfast, whose 
 Soyer he had been, so full of Eden, Sybaris, the 
 holocausts of Achilles, the triclinia of Lucullus, 
 the automaton tables of the QEil de Boeuf, the 
 cabinets of the Preres Proven^aux, and the 
 dinners of civilization where the wise and the 
 witty meet to shine and sparkle for the beauti- 
 ful, that our meagre provender suffered " change 
 into something rich and strange " ; the flakes of 
 Med. pork became peacocks' tongues, every quoit
 
 ACROSS COUNTRY. 56 
 
 of tough toasted dough a vol au vent, and the 
 coffee that never saw milk or muscovado a 
 diviner porridge than ever was sipped on the 
 simny summits of Olympus. Such a magician 
 is priceless. Every object, when he looked at it, 
 seemed to revolve about and exhibit its bright 
 side. Difficulty skulked away from him. Dan- 
 ger cowered under his eye. 
 
 Nothing could damp his entliusiasm. Nothing 
 could drench his ardor. No drowning his en- 
 ergy. He never growled, never sulked, never 
 snapped, never flinched. Frosty nights on the 
 Sierra tried to cramp him ; foggy mornings in 
 the valleys did their worst to chill him ; showers 
 shrank his buckskins and soaked the macheers 
 of his saddle to mere pulp ; rain pelted his blan- 
 kets in the bivouac till he was a moist island in a 
 muddy lake. Bah, elements ! try it on a milk- 
 sop ! not on John Brent, the invulnerable. He 
 laughs in the ugly phiz of Trouble. Hit some- 
 body else, thou grizzly child of Erebus ! 
 
 Brent was closer to Nature than any man I 
 ever knew. Not after the manner of an artist. 
 The artist. can hardly escape a certain technical- 
 ity. He looks at the world through the spectacles 
 of his style. He loves mist and hates sunshine, 
 or loves brooks and shrinks from the gloom of for- 
 ests primeval, or adores meadows and haystacks, 
 and dreads the far-sweeping plain and the sovran
 
 66 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 snow-peak. Even the greatest artist runs a risk, 
 which only the greater than greatest escape, of 
 suiting Nature to themselves, not themselves to 
 Nature. Brent with Nature was like a yoiith 
 with the maiden he loves. She was always his 
 love, whatever she could do ; however dressed, in 
 clouds or sunshine, unchanging fair ; in what- 
 ever mood, weeping or smiling, at her sweetest ; 
 grand, beautiful for her grandeur ; tender, beauti- 
 ful for her tenderness ; simple, lovely for her 
 simplicity ; careless, prettier than if she were 
 trim and artful ; rough, potent, and impressive, 
 a barbaric queen. 
 
 It is not a charming region, that breadth of the 
 world between the Foolonner Mine and the Great 
 Salt Lake. Much is dusty desert ; much is 
 dreary plain, bushed with wild sage, the wretch- 
 edest plant that grows ; much is rugged moun- 
 tain. A grim and desolate waste. But large 
 and broad. Unbroken and undisturbed, in its 
 solemn solitude, by prettiness. No thought of 
 cottage life there, or of the tame, hmited, sub- 
 missive civilization that hangs about lattices and 
 trellises, and pets its chirping pleasures, keep- 
 ing life as near the cradle as it may. It is a 
 region that appeals to the go and the gallop, 
 that even the veriest cockney, who never saw 
 beyond a vista of blocks, cannot eliminate from 
 his being. It does not order man to sink into
 
 ACROSS COUNTRY. 67 
 
 a ploughman. Ploughmen may tarry in those 
 dull, boundless plough-fields, the prairie lands 
 of «u"c?-America. These desert spaces, ribbed 
 with barren ridges, stretch for the Bedouin tread 
 of those who 
 
 " Love all waste 
 And solitary places, where we taste 
 The pleasure of believing what we see 
 Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be." 
 
 It may be a dreary region ; but the great white 
 clouds in the noons of that splendid Septem- 
 ber, the red dawns before us, the red twilights 
 behind, the vague mountain lines upon the far 
 horizon, the sharp crag lines near at hand, the 
 lambent stars that lit our bivouacs, the moon 
 that paled the lambent stars, — all these had 
 their glory, intcnser because each fact came 
 simple and alone, and challenged study and 
 love with a force that shames the spendthrift 
 exuberance of fuller landscapes. 
 
 In all this time I learned to love the man John 
 Brent, as I had loved the boy ; but as mature 
 man loves man. I have known no more perfect 
 union than that one friendship. Nothing so 
 tender in any of my transitory loves for women. 
 We were two who thought alike, but saw differ- 
 ently, and never quarrelled because the shield 
 was to him gold and to me silver. Such a friend- 
 ship justifies life. All bad faith is worth en- 
 
 3*
 
 58 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 countering for the sake of such good faith, — all 
 cold shoulder for such warm heart. 
 
 And so I bring our little party over the first 
 half of its journey. 
 
 I will not even delay to describe Utah, not 
 even for its water-melons' sake, though that tri- 
 color dainty greatly gladdened our dry jaws, as 
 we followed the valley from Box Elder, the 
 northernmost settlement, to the City of the 
 Great Salt Lake. 
 
 In a few days of repose we had exhausted 
 Mormon civilization, and, horses and men fresh 
 and in brave heart, we rode out of the modern 
 Mecca, one glorious day of early October.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 JAKE SHAMBERLAIN. 
 
 If Heaven's climate approaches the perfect 
 charm of an American October, I accept my 
 place in advance, and book my lodgings for 
 eternity. 
 
 The climate of the best zone in America is 
 transcendent for its purpose. Its purpose is to 
 keep men at their keenest, at high edge and high 
 ardor all the time. Then, for enchanting luxury 
 of repose, when ardent summer has achieved its 
 harvest, and all the measure of the year is full, 
 comes ripe October, with its golden, slumberous 
 air. The atmosphere is visible sunshine. Ev- 
 ery leaf in the forest changes to a resplendent 
 blossom. The woods are rich and splendorous, 
 but not glaring. Nothing breaks the tranquil 
 wealthy sentiment of the time. It is the year's 
 delightful holiday. 
 
 In such a season we rode through the bare 
 defiles of the Wasatch Mountains, wall of Utah 
 on the east. We passed Echo Canon, and the 
 other strait gates and rough ways tlu'ough which
 
 60 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 the Latter-Day Saints win an entrance to their 
 Sion. 
 
 We met them in throngs, hard at work at 
 such winning. The summer emigration of Mor- 
 mons was beginning to come in. No one would 
 have admitted their claim to saintship from their 
 appearance. If they had no better passport 
 than their garb, " Avaunt ! Procul este profani I " 
 would have cried any trustworthy janitor of 
 Sion. Saints, if I know them, are clean, — are 
 not ragged, are not even patched. Their gar- 
 ments renew themselves, shed rain like Macin- 
 tosh, repel dust, sweeten unsavoriness. TJiese 
 sham saints needed unlimited scouring, persons 
 and raiment. We passed them, when we could, 
 to windward. Poor creatures ! we shall see 
 more of their kindred anon. 
 
 We hastened on, for our way was long, and 
 autumn's hospitable days were few. Just at the 
 foot of those bare, bulky mounds of mountain by 
 which the Wasatch range tones off into the great 
 plains between it and the Rockys, we overtook 
 the Salt Lake mail party going eastward. They 
 were travelling eight or ten men strong, with a 
 four-mule waggon, and several horses and mules 
 driven beside for relays. 
 
 " If Jake Shamberlain is the captain of the 
 party," said Brent, when we cauglit sight of them 
 upon the open, " we '11 join tliem."
 
 •FAKE SHAMBERLAIN. 61 
 
 " Who is Jake Shamberlain ? " 
 " A happy-go-lucky fellow, whom I have met 
 and recognized all over the world. He has been 
 a London policeman. He was pulling stroke-oar 
 in the captain's gig that took me ashore from a 
 dinner on board the Firefly, British steamer, at 
 the Pirasus. He has been a lay brother in a Car- 
 thusian convent. He married a pretty girl in 
 Boston once, went off on a mackerel trip, and 
 when he came back the pretty girl had bigamized. 
 That made Mormon and polygamist of him. He 
 came out two or three years ago, and, being a 
 thriving fellow, has got to himself lands and 
 beeves and wives without number. Biddulpli 
 and I stayed several days with him when we came 
 through in the summer. His ranch is down the 
 valley, toward Provo. He owns half the United 
 States mail contract. They told me in the city 
 that he intended to run this trip himself. You 
 will see an odd compound of a fellow." 
 
 " I should think so ; policeman, acolyte, man- 
 of-war's-man, Yankee husband. Mormon ! Has 
 he come to his finahty ? " 
 
 " He thuiks so. He is a shrewd fellow of many 
 smatterings. He says there are only two logical 
 religions in the civilized world, — the Popish and 
 the Mormon. Those two are the only ones that 
 have any basis in authority. His convent experi- 
 ence disenchanted him with Catholicism. He is
 
 62 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 quite irreverent, is the estimable Jake. He says 
 monks are a set of snuffy old reprobates. He 
 says that he found celibacy tended to all manner 
 of low vice ; that monogamy disappointed him ; 
 so he tried the New Revelation, polygamy and 
 all, and has become an ardent propagandist 
 and exhorter. Take the man as he is, and he 
 has plenty of brave, honest qualities." 
 
 We had by this time ridden up to the mail 
 party. They were moving slowly along. The 
 night's camping-spot was near. It was a bit of 
 grassy level on the bank of a river, galloping over 
 the pebbles with its mountain impetus still in it, 
 — Green River, perhaps ; Green, or White, or 
 Big Sandy, or Little Stony. My map of memory 
 is veined with so many such streams, all going in 
 a hurry through barren plains, and no more than 
 drains on a water-shed, that I confuse their un- 
 distinguishing names. Such mere business-like 
 water-courses might as well fce numbered, after 
 the fashion of the monotonous streets of a city, 
 too new for the consecration of history. Dear 
 New England's beloved brooks and rivers, slow 
 through the meadows and beneath the elms, 
 tumbling and cascading down the mountain-sides 
 from under the darkling hemlocks into the spar- 
 kle of noon, and leaping into white water between 
 the files of Northern birches, — they have their 
 well-remembered titles, friendly and domestic, or
 
 JAKE SHAMBERLAIN. 63 
 
 of sturdy syllables and wilderness sound. Such 
 waters have spoiled me for gutters, — Colorados, 
 Arkansaws, Plattes, and Missouris. 
 
 " Hillo, Shamberlaiu ! " hailed Brent, riding 
 up to the train. 
 
 " Howdydo ? Howdydo ? No swap ! " re- 
 sponded Jake, after the Indian fashion. " Bung 
 my eyes ! ef you 're not the mate of all mates 
 I 'm glad to see. Pax vobiscrum, my filly ! You 
 look as fresh as an Aperel shad. Praised be the 
 Lord ! " continued he, relapsing into Mormon 
 slang, " who has sent thee again, like a brand 
 from the burning, to fall into paths of pleasant- 
 ness with the Saints, as they wander from the 
 Promised Land to the mean section where the 
 low-hved Gentiles ripen their souls for hell." 
 
 Droll farrago ! but just as Jake delivered it. 
 He had the slang and the swearing of all climes 
 and countries at his tongue's end. 
 
 " Hello, stranger ! " said he, turning to me. 
 " I allowed you was the Barrownight." 
 
 " It 's my friend, Richard Wade," said Brent. 
 
 "Yours to command. Brother Wade," Jake 
 says hospitably, " Ef you turn out prime, one 
 of the out and outers, like Brother John Brent, 
 I '11 tip 'em the wink to let you oif easy at the 
 Judgment Day, Gentile or not. I 've booked 
 Brother John fur Paradise ; Brother Joseph's 
 got a white robe fur him, blow high, blow low ! "
 
 64 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 We rode along beside Sliambeiiain. 
 
 " What did you mean just now ? " asked my 
 friend. " You spoke of Wade's being the bar- 
 onet." 
 
 " I allowed you would n't leave him behind." 
 
 "I don't understand. I have not seen him 
 since we left you in the summer. I 've been on 
 to California and back." 
 
 " The Barrownight 's ben stoppin' round in 
 the Valley ever since. He seems to have a call 
 to stop. Prehaps his heart is tetched, and he is 
 goan to jiue the Lord's people. I left him down 
 to my ranch, ten days ago, playing with a grizzly 
 cub, what he 's trying to make a gentleman of. 
 A pooty average gentleman it '11 make too." 
 
 " Very odd ! " says Brent to me. " Biddulph 
 meant to start for home, at once, when we 
 parted. He had some errand in l^ehalf of the 
 lady he had run away from." 
 
 " Probably he found he could not trust his old 
 wounds under her eyes again. Wants another 
 year's crust over his scarified heart." 
 
 " Quite likely. Well, I wish we had known 
 he was in the Valley. We would have carried 
 him back with us. A fine fellow ! Could n't be 
 a better ! " 
 
 " Not raw, as Englishmen generally are ? " 
 
 " No ; well ripened by a year or so in Amer- 
 ica."
 
 JAKE SHA^IBERLAIN. 65 
 
 " Individuals need that cookery, as the race 
 did." 
 
 " Yes ; I wish our social cuisine were a thought 
 more scientific." 
 
 " All in good time. We shall separate sauces 
 by and by, and not compel beef, mutton, and 
 turkey to submit to the same gravy." 
 
 " Meanwhile some of my countrymen are so 
 under-done, and some so over-done, that I have 
 lost my taste for them." 
 
 " Such social dyspepsia is soon cured on the 
 plains. You will go back with a healthy appe- 
 tite. Did your English friend describe the lady 
 of his love ? " 
 
 " No ; it was evidently too stern a grief to talk 
 about. He could keep up his spirits only by 
 resolutely turning his back on the subject." 
 
 " It must needs have been a weak heart or a 
 mighty passion." 
 
 " The latter. A brave fellow like Biddulph docs 
 not take to his heels from what he can overcome." 
 
 By this time we had reached camp. 
 
 Horses first, self afterwards, is the law of the 
 plains travel. A camp must have, — 
 
 1. Water. 
 
 2. Fodder. 
 
 3. Fuel. 
 
 Those are the necessities. Anything else is 
 luxury. 
 
 B
 
 G6 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 The mail party were a set of jolly roughs. 
 Jake Shamberlain was the type man. To en- 
 counter such fellows is good healthy education. 
 As useful in kind, but higher in degree, as going 
 to a bear conversazione or a lion and tiger con- 
 cert. Civilization molUfies the race. It is not 
 well to have hard knocks and rough usage for 
 mind or body eliminated from our training. 
 
 We joined suppers with our new friends. Af- 
 ter supper we sat smoking our pipes, and talking 
 horse, Indians, bear-fights, scalping, and other 
 brutal business, such as the world has not out- 
 g;rown.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ENTEE, THE BRUTES ! 
 
 The' sun had just gone down. There was a 
 red wrangle of angry vapors over the mounds 
 of mountain westward. A brace of travellers 
 from Salt Lake way rode up and lighted their 
 camp-fire near ours. More society in that lonely 
 world. Two famihes, with two sets of Lares and 
 Penates. 
 
 Not attractive society. They were a sinister- 
 looking couple of hounds. A lean wolfish and 
 a fat bony dog. 
 
 One was a rawboned, strmgy chap, — as gaunt, 
 unkempt, and cruel a Pike as ever pillaged the 
 cabin, insulted the wife, and squirted tobacco over 
 the dead body of a Free State settler in Kansas. 
 The other was worse, because craftier. A lit- 
 tle man, stockish, oily, and red in the face. A 
 jaunty fellow, too, with a certain shabby air of 
 coxcombry even in his travel-stained attire. 
 
 They were well mounted, both. The long ruf- 
 fian rode a sorrel, big and bony as himself, and 
 equally above such accidents as food or no food.
 
 68 JOHN ?.ni:\!\ 
 
 The little villain's mount was a red roan, a Flat- 
 head horse, rather naggy, but perfectly hardy and 
 wiry, — an animal that one would choose to do a 
 thousand miles in twenty days, or a hundred be- 
 tween sunrise and sunset. They had also two 
 capital mules, packed very light. One was brand- 
 ed, " A. &A." 
 
 Distrust and disgust are infallible instincts. 
 Men's hearts and lives are written on their faces, 
 to warn or charm. Never reject that divine or 
 devilish record ! 
 
 Brent read the strangers, shivered at me, and 
 said, sotto voce, " What a precious pair of cut- 
 throats ! We must look sharp for our horses 
 while they are about." 
 
 " Yes," returned I, in the same tone ; " they 
 look to me like Sacramento gamblers, who have 
 murdered somebody, and had to make tracks for 
 their lives." 
 
 " The Cassius of the pair is bad enough," said 
 drent ; " but that oily little wretch sickens me. 
 I can imagine him when he arrives at St. Louis, 
 blossomed into a purple coat with velvet lappels, 
 a brocaded waistcoat, diamond shirt-studs, or a 
 flamboyant scarf pinned with a pinchbeck dog, and 
 red-legged patent-leather boots, picking his teeth 
 on the steps of the Planters' House. Faugh ! I 
 feel as if a snake were crawling over me, when 1 
 look at him."
 
 ENTER, THE BRUTES'. 69 
 
 " They are not very welcome neighbors to our 
 friends here." 
 
 " No. Roughs abhor brutes as much as you 
 or I do. Roughs are only nature ; brutes are 
 sin. I do not like this brutal element coming in. 
 It portends misfortune. You and I will inevita- 
 bly come into collision with those fellows." 
 
 " You take your hostile attitude at once, and 
 without much reluctance." 
 
 " You know something of my experience. I 
 have had a struggle all my life with sin in one 
 form or other, with brutality in one form or 
 other. I have been lacerated so often from 
 unwillingness to strike the first blow, that I have 
 at last been forced into the offensive." 
 
 " You believe in flooring Apollyon before he 
 floors you." 
 
 " There must be somebody to do the merciless. 
 It 's not my business — the melting mood — in 
 my present era." 
 
 " We are going ofi" into generalities, apropos 
 of those two brutes. What, volunteer cham- 
 pion of virtue, dost thou propose in regard to 
 them ? When will you challenge them to the 
 ordeal, to prove themselves hoiiest men and good 
 fellows ? " 
 
 " Aggression always comes from evil. They 
 are losels ; we are true knights. They will do 
 some sneaking villany. You and I will there- 
 upon up and at 'em."
 
 70 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " Odd fellow are you, with your premonitions ! " 
 
 " They are very vague, of course, but based on 
 a magnetism which I have learnt to trust, after 
 much discipline, because I refused to obey it. 
 Look at that big brute, how he kicks and curses 
 his mule ! " 
 
 " Perhaps he has stolen it, and is revenging 
 his theft on its object. That brand ' A. & A.' 
 may remind him what a thief he is." 
 
 " Here comes the fat brother. He '11 propose 
 to camp with us." 
 
 " It is quite natural he should, saint or sinner, 
 — all the more if he is sinner. It must be terri- 
 ble for a man who has ugly secrets to wake up at 
 night, alone in bivouac, with a grisly dream, no 
 human being near, and find the stars watching 
 him keenly, or the great white, solemn moon pity- 
 ing him, yet saying, with her inflexible look, that, 
 moan and curse as he may, no remorse will save 
 him from despair." 
 
 " Yes," said Brent, knocking the ashes out of 
 his pipe ; " night always seems to judge and sen- 
 tence the day. A foul man, or a guilty man, so 
 long as he intends to remain foul and guilty, 
 dreads pure, quiet, orderly Nature." 
 
 The objectionable stranger came up to our 
 camp-fire. 
 
 " Hello, men ! " said he, with a familiar air, 
 " it 's a fine night " ; and meeting with no re-
 
 ENTER, THE BRUTES! 71 
 
 sponse, he continued : " But, I reckon, you don't 
 allow nothin' else but fine nights in this section." 
 
 " Bad company makes all nights bad," says 
 Jake Shamberlain, gruffly enough. 
 
 " Ay ; and good company betters the orneriest 
 sort er weather. The more the merrier, eh ? " 
 
 '' Supposin' its more perarer wolves, or more 
 rattlesnakes, or more horse-thieving, scalpin 
 Utes ! " says Jake, unpropitiated. 
 
 " 0," said the new-comer a little uneasilj, 
 " I don't mean sech. I mean jolly dogs, like me 
 and my pardener. We allowed you 'd choose 
 company in camp. We 'd like to stick our pegs 
 in alongside of yourn, ef no gent haint got 
 nothin' to say agin it." 
 
 "It 's a free country," Jake said, " and looks 
 pooty roomy round here. You ken camp whar 
 you blame please, — off or on." 
 
 " Well," says the fellow, laying hold of this 
 very slight encouragement, " since you 're agree- 
 able, we '11 fry our pork over your fire, and hev 
 a smoke to better acquaintance." 
 
 " He ain't squimmidge," said Jake to us, as 
 the fellow walked off to call his comrade. " He 's 
 bound to ring himself into this here party, who- 
 ever says stickleback. He 's one er them Alge- 
 rines what don't know a dark hint, till it begins 
 to make motions, and kicks 'em out. Well, two 
 more men, with two regiments' allowance of
 
 72 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 shootiii' irons won't do no harm in this Ingine 
 country." 
 
 " Well, boys ! " said the unpleasant fatling, ap- 
 proaching again. " Here is my pardener, Sam 
 Smith, from Sacramenter ; what he don't know 
 about a horse ain't worth knowin'. My name is 
 Jim Robinson. I ken sing a song, tell a story, 
 or fling a card with any man, in town or out er 
 town." 
 
 While the strangers cooked their supper, my 
 friend and I lounged off apart upon the prairie. 
 A few steps gave us a capital picture. The white 
 wagon ; the horses feeding in the distance, a 
 dusky group ; the men picturesquely disposed 
 about the fire, now glowing ruddy against the 
 thickening night. A Gypsy scene. Literal "Vie 
 de Boheme." 
 
 " I am never bored," said Brent to me, " with 
 the company or the talk of men like those, good 
 or bad. Homo sum; nil humani, and so forth, 
 — a sentiment of the late Plautus, now first 
 quoted." 
 
 " You do not yet feel a reaction toward schol- 
 arly society." 
 
 " No ; this Homeric life, with its struggle 
 against elements, which I can deify if I please, 
 and against crude forces in man or nature, suits 
 the youth of my manhood, my Achilles time. The 
 world went through an epoch of just such life as
 
 ENTER, THE BRUTES! 73 
 
 we are leading. Every man must, to be com- 
 plete and not conventional." 
 
 " A man who wants to know his country and 
 his age must clash with all the people and all 
 the kinds of life in it. You and I have had the 
 college, the salon, the club, the street, Europe, 
 the Old World, and Yankeedom through and 
 through ; when do you expect to outgrow Ish- 
 mael, my Jonathan ? " 
 
 " Whenever Destiny gives me the final acco- 
 lade of merit, and names me Lover." 
 
 " What ! have you never been that happy 
 wretch ? " 
 
 " Never. I have had transitory ideals. I have 
 been enchanted by women willowy and women 
 dumpy ; by the slight and colorless mind and 
 body, by the tender and couleur de rose, and 
 by the biixom and ruddy. I have adored Zo- 
 beide and Hildegarde, Dolores and Dorothy Ann, 
 imp and angel, sprite and fiend. I have had my 
 little irritation of a foolish fancy, my sharp scourge 
 of an unworthy passion. I am heart-whole still, 
 and growing a little expectant of late." 
 
 " You are not cruising the plains for a lady- 
 love ! It is not, ' I will wed a savage woman ' ? 
 It is not for a Pawnee squaw that you go clad in 
 skins and disdain the barber ? " 
 
 " No. My business in Cosmos is not to be tho 
 father of half-breeds. But soberly, old fellow, I 
 
 4
 
 74 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 need peace after a life driven into premature 
 foemanship. I need tranquillity to let my char- 
 acter use my facts. I want the bitter drawn out 
 of me, and the sweet fostered. I yearn to be a 
 lover." 
 
 As he said this, we had approached the camp- 
 fire. Jim Robinson, by this time quite at home, 
 was making his accomplishments of use. He was 
 debasing his audience with a vulgar song. The 
 words and air jarred upon both of us. 
 
 '■^Nil humani a me alienum puto, I repeat," 
 said Brent, " but that foul stuff is not the voice 
 of humanity. Let 's go look at the horses. They 
 do not belie their nobler nature, and are not in 
 the line of degradation. I cannot harden myself 
 not to shrink from the brutal element wherever 
 I find it ; whether in two horse-thieves on the 
 plains, or in a well-dressed reprobate of society 
 at the club in New York." 
 
 " Brutes in civilization are just as base, but 
 not so blatant." 
 
 " Old Pumps and the Don, here, are a gentler 
 and more honorable pair than these strangers." 
 
 " They are the gentlemen of their race." 
 
 " It 's not their cue to talk ; but if the gift of 
 tongues should come to them, they would disdain 
 all unchivalric and discourteous words. They 
 do now, with those brave eyes and scornful nos- 
 trils, rebuke whatever is unmanly in men."
 
 ENTER, THE BEUTES! T5 
 
 " Yes ; they certainly look ready to co-operate 
 in all knightly duties." 
 
 " One of those, as I hinted before, is riding 
 down caitiffs." 
 
 We left our horses, busy at their suppers, be- 
 side the brawling river, and walked back to camp. 
 It was a Caravaggio scene by the firelight. Jim 
 Robinson had produced cards. The men of the 
 mail party were intent over the game. Even Jake 
 Shamberlain had easily forgotten his distrust of 
 the strangers. The two suspects, whether with 
 an eye to future games, or because they could 
 not offend their comrades and protectors for this 
 dangerous journey, were evidently playing fair. 
 Robinson would sometimes exhibit a winning 
 hand, and say, with an air of large liberality, 
 " Ye see, boys, I ked rake down yer dimes, ef I 
 chose ; but this here is a game among friends. 
 I 'm playin' for pastime. I 've made my pile 
 olreddy, and so 's my pardener." 
 
 The gambler's face and the gambler's manner 
 are the same all over the world. Always the 
 same impassible watchfulness. Always the same 
 bullying cruelty or feline cruelty. Always the 
 same lurking triumph, and the same lurking 
 sneer at the victim. The same quiet satisfaction 
 that gamesters will be geese, and gamblers are 
 deputed to pluck them ; the same suppressea 
 chuckle over the efforts of the luckless to re-
 
 76 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 trieve bad luck ; the same calm confidence that 
 the lucky player will by and by back the w.rong 
 card, the wrong color, or the wrong number, and 
 the bank will take back its losses. What hard 
 faces they wear ! "Wear, — for their faces seem 
 masks merely, dropped only at stealthy moments. 
 Always the same look and the same manner. 
 Young and beautiful faces curdle into it. Wo- 
 men's even. I have seen women, the slaves of 
 the hells their devils kept, whose faces would 
 have been fair and young, if this ugly mask 
 could but be torn away. AU men and all wo- 
 men who make prey of their fellows, who lie in 
 wait to seize and dismember brothers and sisters, 
 get this same relentless expression. It fixes it- 
 self deepest on a gambler ; he must hold the same 
 countenance from the first lamp-lighting until in- 
 dignant dawn pales the sickly light of lamps, and 
 the first morning air creeps in to stir the heavy- 
 hearted atmosphere, and show that it is poison. 
 
 " I 've seen villains just like those two," said 
 Brent, " in every hell in Europe and America. 
 They always go in pairs ; a tiger and a snake ; a 
 bully and a wheedler. 
 
 " Mind and matter. The old partnership, like 
 yours and mine." 
 
 Next morning the two strangers were free and 
 accepted members of the party. They travelled 
 on with us without question. Smith the gaunt
 
 ENTER, THE BRUTES 1 77 
 
 affected a rough frankness of manner. Robinson 
 was low comedy. His head was packed with 
 scurvy jokes and stories. He had a foul leer 
 on his face whenever he was thinking his own 
 thoughts. But either, if suddenly startled, 
 showed the unmistakable look that announces 
 worse crime than mere knavery. 
 
 They tangled their names so that we perceived 
 each was an alias hastily assumed. Smith com- 
 pared six-shooters with me. I detected on his the 
 name Murker, half erased. Once, too, Brent 
 heard Murker, alias Smith, call his partner Lar- 
 rap. 
 
 " Larrap is appropriate," said I, when Brent 
 told me this ; " just the name for him, as that 
 unlucky mule branded ' A. & A.' could testify." 
 
 " The long ruffian studied my face, when he 
 made that slip, to see if I had heard. He might 
 as well have inspected the air for the mark of 
 his traitorous syllables." 
 
 " You claim that your phiz is so covered with 
 hieroglyphs, inscriptions of fine feeling, that there 
 is no room to write suspicions of other men's 
 villany ? " 
 
 " A clean heart keeps a clean face. A guilty 
 heart will announce itself at eyes and lips and 
 cheeks, and by a thousand tremors of the nerves. 
 I have no prejudices against the family Larrap. 
 But when Larrap's mate spoke the name, he
 
 78 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 looked at me as if he had been committing a mur- 
 der, and had by an irresistible impulse proclaimed 
 the fact. Look at him now ! how he starts and 
 half turns whenever one of our horses makes a 
 clatter. He dares not quite look back. He 
 knows there is something after him." 
 
 " The dread of a vengeance, you think. That 's 
 a blacker follower than ' Atra curapost equitem.^ " 
 
 I tire of these unwholesome characters I am 
 describing. But I did not put them into the 
 story. They took their places themselves. I 
 find that brutality interferes in most dramas and 
 most lives. Brutality the male sin, disloyalty the 
 female sin, — these two are always doing their 
 best to baffle and blight heroism and purity. 
 Often they succeed. Oftener they fail. And so 
 the world exists, and is not annulled ; its history 
 is the history of the struggle and the victory. 
 This episode of my life is a brief of the world's 
 complete experience.
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A MORMON CARAVAN. 
 
 Still, as we rode along, the same rich, tran- 
 quil days of October ; the air always potable 
 gold, and every breath nepenthe. 
 
 Early on one of the fairest of afternoons when 
 all were fairest, we reached Fort Bridger. Bridger 
 had been an old hunter, trapper, and by and by 
 that forlorn hope of civilization, the holder of an 
 Indian trading-post. The spot is better known 
 now. It was there that that miserable bungle 
 and blunder of an Administration more fool, if 
 that be possible, than knave, — the Mormon Expe- 
 dition in 1858, — took refuge, after its disasters on 
 the Sweetwater. 
 
 At the moment of our arrival, Bridger's Fort 
 had just suffered capture. Its owner was miss- 
 ing. The old fellow had deemed himself the 
 squatter sovereign of that bleak and sere region. 
 He had built an adobe mud fort, with a palisade, 
 on a sweep of plain a degree less desert than the 
 deserts hard by. That oasis was his oasis, so he 
 fondly hoped ; that mud fort, his mud fort ; those
 
 80 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 willows and alders, his thickets ; and that trade, 
 his trade. 
 
 But Bridger was one man, and he had power- 
 ful neighbors. It was a case of " O si angulus 
 iste / " — a Naboth's-vineyard case. The Mor- 
 mons did not love the rugged mountaineer ; that 
 worthy Gentile, in turn, thought the saints no 
 better than so many of the ungodly. The Mor- 
 mons coveted oasis, fort, thicket, and trade. 
 They accused the old fellow of selling powder 
 and ball to hostile Indians, — to Walker, chief of 
 the Utes, a scion, no doubt, of the Hookey Walker 
 branch of that family. Very likely he had done 
 so. At all events, it was a good pretext. So, in 
 the name of the Prophet, and Brigham, successor 
 of the Prophet, the Latter-Day Saints had made 
 a raid upon the post. Bridger escaped to the 
 mountains. The captors occupied the Gentile's 
 property, and spoiled his goods. 
 
 Jake Shamberlain told us this story, not with- 
 out some sympathy for the exile. 
 
 " It 's oUuz so," says Jake ; " Paul plants, and 
 Apollyon gets the increase. Not that Bridger 's 
 like Paul, any more 'n we 're like Apollyon ; but 
 we 're goan to have all the cider off his apple- 
 trees." 
 
 " I 'm sorry old Bridger has come to grief," 
 said Brent to me, as we rode over the plain to- 
 ward the fort. " He was a rough, but worth all
 
 A MORMON CARAVAN. 81 
 
 the Latter-Day Saints this side of Armageddon. 
 Biddulph and I stayed a week with him last 
 summer, when we came from the mountains 
 about Luggernel Alley." 
 
 " How far is Luggernel Alley from this 
 spot ? " 
 
 " Fifty miles or so to the south and east. I 
 almost fancy I recognize it in that slight notch in 
 the line of the blue sierra on the horizon. I 
 wonder if I shall ever see it again ! If it were 
 not so late, I should insist upon taking you there 
 now. There is no such gorge in the world. And 
 the springs, bold, liberal fountains, gushing out 
 on a glittering greensward ! There are several 
 of them, some boiling, some cold as ice ; and one, 
 the Champagne Spring, wastes in the wilderness 
 the most delicate, sparkling, exhilarating tipple 
 that ever reddened a lip or freshened a brain." 
 
 " Wait half a century ; then you and I will go 
 there by rail, with our grandchildren, for draughts 
 of the Fountain of Youth." 
 
 " I should like to spend a honeymoon there, if 
 I could find a wife plucky enough to cross the 
 plains." 
 
 How well I remembered all this conversation 
 afterwards, and not long afterwards ! 
 
 We rode up to the fort. A dozen or so of 
 somewhat rubbishy soldiers, the garrison, were 
 lounging about. 
 
 4* V
 
 82 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 *' Will they expect a countersign," asked I, — 
 " some slogan of their vulgarized Islamism ? " 
 
 " Hardly ! " replied Brent. " Only one man 
 in the world can care about assailing this dismal 
 den. They need not be as ceremonious with 
 strangers as the Dutchmen are at Ehrenbreitstein 
 and Verona." 
 
 Jake and the main party stopped at the fort. 
 "We rode on a quarter of a mile farther, and 
 camped near a stream, where the grass was plen- 
 teous. 
 
 " Fulano and Pumps are in better condition 
 than when we started," said I, while we were 
 staking them out for a long feed. " The mus- 
 tangs have had all the drudgery ; these aristo- 
 crats must be set to do their share soon." 
 
 " They are in prime racing order. If we had 
 had them in training for three months for a 
 steeple-chase, or a flight, or a Sabine adventure, 
 or a rescue, they could not be in better trim than 
 this moment. I suppose their time to do their 
 duty must be at hand, they seem so ardent for it." 
 
 We left our little caballada nibbling daintily at 
 the sweetest spires of self-cured hay, and walked 
 back to the fort. 
 
 We stood there chatting with the garrison. 
 Tresently Brent's quick eye caught some white 
 ppots far away on the slope of the prairie, like 
 Fails on the edge of a dreamy, sunny sea.
 
 A MORJION CARAVAN. 83 
 
 " Look ! " said he, " there comes a Salt Lake 
 emigration train." 
 
 " Yes," said a Mormon of tlie garrison, "that 's 
 Elder Sizzum's train. Their forerunner came in 
 this morning to choose the camping-spot. There 
 they be ! two hundred ox-teams, a thousand 
 Saints, bound for the Promised Land." 
 
 He walked off to announce the arrival, whis- 
 tling, " Jordan is a hard road to travel." 
 
 I knew of Sizzum as the most seductive orator 
 and foreign propagandist of Mormonism. He 
 had been in England some time, very successful 
 at the good work. The caravans we had already 
 met were of his proselytes. He himself was 
 coming on with the last train, the one now in 
 view, and steering for Fort Bridger. 
 
 As we stood watching, the lengthening file 
 of white-hooded wagons crept slowly into sight. 
 They came forward diagonally to our line of 
 view, travelling apart at regular intervals, like 
 the vessels of a well-ordered convoy. Now the 
 whole fleet dipped into a long hollow, and pres- 
 ently the leader rose slowly up over the ridge, 
 and then slid over the slope, like a sail winging 
 down the broad back of a surge. So they made 
 their way along over the rolling sweep of the 
 distance. 
 
 " Beautiful ! " said Brent. " See how the white 
 canvas goldens in this rich October haze. Such 
 scenes are the poetry of prairie life."
 
 84 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " I am too sorry for the crews, to enj(»y the 
 sunlit sails." 
 
 " Yes, the safer their voyage, the surer their 
 wreck in that gulf of superstition beyond the 
 mountains." 
 
 " Perhaps we waste sympathy. A man who 
 has no more wit than to believe the trash they 
 teach, has no business with anything but stupid 
 drudgery. He will never suffer with discover- 
 ing his faith to be a delusion." 
 
 " You may say that of a grown man ; but 
 think of the children, — to grow up in desecrated 
 homes, and never know the close and tender 
 influence of family nurture." 
 
 " The state owes them an interference and an 
 education." 
 
 " So it does ; and the women protection from 
 polygamy, whether they will or no." 
 
 " Certainly. Polygamy makes woman a slave, 
 either by force, or influence stronger than force. 
 The state exists only to secure the blessings of 
 liberty to every soul within its borders, and so 
 must free her." 
 
 " Good logic, but not likely, quite yet, to guide 
 legislation in our country." 
 
 " This is Sizzum's last train ; if the women 
 here are no more fascinating than their shabby 
 sisters of its forerunners, we shall carry ouj 
 hearts safe home."
 
 A IIORAION CARAVAN. 85 
 
 " I cannot laugh about that," said Brent. 
 " My old dread revives, whenever 1 see one of 
 these caravans, that there may be in it some 
 innocent girl too young to choose, carried off 
 by a fanatic father or guardian. Tliink of the 
 misery to a woman of any refinement ! " 
 
 " But we have not seen any such." 
 
 Larrap and Murker here joined us, and, over- 
 hearing the last remarks, began to speak in a 
 very disgusting tone of the women we had seen 
 in previous trains. 
 
 " I don't wish to hear that kind of stuff," said 
 Brent, turning sternly upon Larrap. 
 
 " It 's a free country, and I shall say what I 
 blame please," the fellow said, with a grin. 
 
 " Then say it by yourself, and away from me." 
 
 " You 're blame squimmidge," said Larrap, 
 and added a beastly remark. 
 
 Brent caught him by the collar, and gave 
 him a shake. 
 
 Murker put his hand to a pistol and looked 
 " Murder, if I dared ! " 
 
 " None of that," said I, stepping before him. 
 
 Jake Shamberlain, seeing the quarrel, came 
 rurming up. " Now, Brother Brent," said Jake, 
 " no shindies in this here Garden of Paradise. 
 If the gent has made a remark what teches you, 
 apologies is in order, an he 'U make all far and 
 squar."
 
 86 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Brent gave the greasy man a fling. 
 
 He went down. Then he got up, with a 
 trace of Bridger's claim on his red shirt. 
 
 " Yer need n't be so blame hash with a fel- 
 ler," said he. "I did n't mean no offence." 
 
 " Very well. Learn to talk like a man, and 
 not like a brute ! " said Brent. 
 
 The two men walked off together, with black 
 looks. 
 
 " You look disappointed, Shamberlain," said 
 I. " Did you expect a battle ? " 
 
 " Ther 's no fight in them fellers," said Jake ; 
 " but ef they can serve you a mean trick they '11 
 do it ; and they 're ambushin' now to look in the 
 dixonary and see what it is. You 'd better keep 
 the lariats of that black and that gray tied 
 round your legs to-night, and every good horse- 
 thief night while they 're along. They may be 
 jolly dogs, and let their chances slide at cards, 
 but my notion is they 're layin' low for bigger 
 hauls." 
 
 " Good advice, Jake ; and so we will." 
 
 By this time the head wagons of Elder Siz- 
 zum's train had crept down upon the level near 
 us. For the length of a long mile behind, the 
 serpentine line held its way. On the yellow 
 rim of the world, with softened outlines against 
 the hazy horizon, the rear wagons were still 
 climbing up into view. The caravan lay like a
 
 A MOKMON CARAVAN. 87 
 
 slowly writliing hydra over the land. Along 
 its snaky bends, where dragon-wings should 
 be, were herds of cattle, plodding beside the 
 " trailing-footed " teams, and little companies of 
 Saints lounging leisurely toward their evening's 
 goal, their unbuilt hostelry on the plain. 
 
 Presently the hydra became a two-headed mon- 
 ster. The foremost wagon bent to the right, the 
 second led off to the left. Each successor, as it 
 came to the point of divergence, filed to the right 
 or left alternately. The split creature expanded 
 itself. The two wings moved on over a broad 
 grassy level north of the fort, describing in reg- 
 ular curve a great ellipse, a third of a mile long, 
 half as much across. 
 
 On either flank the march was timed and or- 
 dered with the precision of practice. This same 
 manoeuvre had been repeated every day of the 
 long journey. Precisely as the foremost teams 
 met at the upper end of the curve, the two hind- 
 most were parting at the lower. The ellipse was 
 complete. It locked itself top and bottom. The 
 train came to a halt. Every wagon of the two 
 hundred stopped close upon the heels of its file 
 leader. 
 
 A tall man, half pioneer, half deacon, in dress 
 and mien, galloped up and down the ring. This 
 was Sizzum, so the by-standers informed us. At 
 a signal from him, the oxen, two and three yoke
 
 88 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 to a wagon, were unyoked, herded, and driven 
 oflf to wash the dust from then- protestant nostrils, 
 and graze over the russet prame. They huddled 
 along, a great army, a thousand strong. Their 
 brown flanks grew ruddy with the low sunshine. 
 A cloud of golden dust rose and hung over them. 
 The air was loud with their lowing. Relieved 
 from their drags, the herd frisked away with 
 unwieldy gambolling. We turned to the camp, 
 that improvised city in the wilderness. 
 
 Nothing could be more systematic than its ar- 
 rangement. Order is welcome in the world. 
 Order is only second to beauty. It is, indeed, 
 the skeleton of beauty. Beauty seeks order, and 
 becomes its raiment. Every great white-hooded, 
 picturesque wagon of the Mormon caravan was 
 in its place. The tongue of each rested on the 
 axle of its forerunner, or was ranged upon the 
 grass beneath. The ellipse became a fort and a 
 corral. Within, the cattle could be safely herded. 
 Marauding Eedskins would gallop about in vain. 
 Nothing stampedable there. Scalping Eedskins, 
 too, would be bafiQed. They could not make a 
 dash through the camp, wliisk off a scalp, and 
 vanish untouched. March and encampment both 
 had been marshalled with masterly skill. 
 
 " Sizzum," Brent avowed to me, sotto voce, 
 " may be a blind guide with ditchward tenden- 
 cies in faith. He certainly knows how to handle
 
 A MORMON CARAVAN. 89 
 
 his heretics in the field. I have seen old tac- 
 ticians, Marechales and Feldzeugmeisters, in Eu- 
 rope, with El Dorado on each shoulder, and 
 Golconda on the left breast, who would have tied 
 up that train into knots that none of them woui j( 
 be Alexander enough to cut."
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 SIZZUM AND mS HERETICS. 
 
 No sooner had this nomad town settled itself 
 quietly for the night, than a town-meeting col- 
 lected in the open of the amphitheatre. 
 
 " Now, brethren," says Shamberlain to us, " ef 
 you want to hear exhortin' as runs without stop- 
 pin', step up and listen to the Apossle of the 
 Gentiles. Prehaps," and here Jake winked per- 
 ceptibly, " you '11 be teched, and want to jine, 
 and prehaps you wont. Ef you 're docyle you '11 
 be teched, ef you 're bulls of Bashan you wont 
 be teched." 
 
 " How did you happen to be converted your- 
 self, Jake ? " Brent asked. " You 've never told 
 me." 
 
 " Why, you see I was naturally of a religious 
 nater, and I 've tried 'em all, but I never fell foul 
 of a religion that had real proved miracles, till 
 I seed a man, born dumb, what was cured by 
 the Prophet Joseph looking down his throat and 
 tellin' his palate to speak up, — and it did speak 
 up, did that there palate, and went on talkin' most
 
 SIZZUM AND HIS HERETICS. 93 
 
 oncommon. It's onbeknown tongues it talks, 
 suthin like gibberidge ; but Joseph said that was 
 how the tongues sounded in the Apossles' time 
 to them as had n't got the interruption of tongues. 
 I struck my flag to that there miracle. I 'd seen 
 'em gettin' up the sham kind, when I was to the 
 Italian convent, and I knowed the fourth-proof 
 article. I may talk rough about this business, 
 but Brother Brent knows I'm honest about it." 
 
 Jake led us forward, and stationed us in posts 
 of honor before the crowd of auditors. 
 
 Presently Sizzum appeared. He had taken 
 time to tone down the pioneer and develop the 
 deacon in his style, and a very sleek personage 
 he had made of himself. He was clean shaved; 
 clean shaving is a favorite coxcombry of the dea- 
 con class. His long black hair, growing rank 
 from a muddy skin, was sleekly put behind his 
 ears. A large white blossom of cravat expanded 
 under his nude, beefy chin, and he wore a black 
 dress-coat, creased with its recent packing. Ex- 
 cept that his pantaloons were thrust into boots 
 with the maker's name (Abel Gushing, Lynn, 
 Mass.) stamped in gold on a scarlet morocco 
 shield in front, he was in correct go-to-meetin' 
 costume, — a Chadband of the plains. 
 
 He took his stand, and began to fulmine over 
 the assemblage. His manner was coarse and 
 overbearing, with intervals of oily persuasive-
 
 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 /as a big, powerful man, without one 
 
 (elicacy in him, — a fellow who never 
 
 :e a flower or a gentle heart into his 
 
 ''without crushing it by a brutal instinct. A 
 
 Mature with such an amorphous beak of a nose, 
 such a heavy-lipped mouth, and such wilderness 
 of jaw, could never perceive the fine savor of 
 any delicate thing. Coarse joys were the only 
 joys for such a body ; coarse emotions, the pleas- 
 ures of force and domination, the only emotions 
 crude enough for such a soul. 
 
 His voice was as repulsive as his mien and 
 manner. That badly modelled nose had an im- 
 portant office in his oratory. Through it he 
 hailed his auditors to open their hearts, as a 
 canal-boatman hails the locks with a canal horn 
 of bassoon calibre. But sometimes, when he 
 wished to be seductive, his sentences took the 
 channel of his mouth, and his great lips rolled 
 the words over like fat morsels. Pah ! how the 
 recollection of the fellow disgusts me ! And yet 
 he had an unwholesome fascination, which com- 
 pelled us to listen. I could easily understand 
 how he might overbear feeble minds, and whee- 
 dle those that loved flattery. He had some edu- 
 cation. Travel had polished his base metal, so 
 that it shone well enough to deceive the vulgar 
 or the credulous. He did not often allow him- 
 self the broad coarseness of his brother preachers 
 in the church.
 
 SIZZUM AND HIS HEEETICS. 93 
 
 Shall I let him speak for himself ? Does any 
 one wish to hear the inspirations of the last faith 
 humanity has chosen for its guide ? 
 
 No. Such travesty of true religion is very 
 sorry comedy, very tragical farce. Vulgar rant 
 and cant, and a muddle of texts and dogmas, are 
 disgusting to hear, and would be weariness to 
 repeat. 
 
 Sizzum's sermon suited his mixed character. 
 He was Aaron and Joshua, high-priest and cap- 
 tain combined. He made his discourse bulletin 
 for to-day, general orders for to-morrow. He 
 warned agamst the perils of disobedience. He 
 raved of the joys and privileges of Latter-Day 
 Saintship on earth and in heaven. He heaped 
 vindictive and truculent anathemas upon Gen- 
 tiles. He gave his audience to understand that 
 he held the keys of the kingdom ; if they yielded 
 to him without question, they were safe in life 
 and eternity ; if they murmured, they were cast 
 into outer darkness. It was terrible to see the 
 man's despotism over his proselytes. A rumble 
 of Amens from the crowd greeted alike every 
 threat and every promise. 
 
 Sizzum's discourse lasted half an hour. He 
 dismissed his audience with an Amen, and an in- 
 junction to keep closer to the train on the march 
 to-morrow, and not be " rabbling off to catch 
 grasshoppers because they were bigger and hand- 
 Bomer than the Lancashire kind."
 
 94 • JOHN BEENT. 
 
 " And this is one of the religions of the nine- 
 teenth century, and such a man is its spokes- 
 man," said Brent to me, as the meeting broke 
 up, and we strolled off alone to inspect the camp. 
 
 " It is a shame to all churches that they have 
 not trained men to judge of evidence, and so 
 rendered such a delusion impossible." 
 
 " But Christianity tolerates, and ever reveres, 
 myths and mythic histories ; and such tolera- 
 tion and reverence offer premiums on the in- 
 vention of new mythologies like this." 
 
 " We, in our churches, teach that phenom- 
 ena can add authority to truth ; we necessarily 
 invite miracle-mongers, Joe Smiths, Pio Nonos, 
 to produce miracles to sustain lies." 
 
 " I suppose," said Brent, " that superstition 
 must be the handmaid of religion, except in 
 minds very holy, or very brave and thorough 
 in study. By and by, when mankind is edu- 
 cated to know that theology is a science, to be 
 investigated and tested like a science, Mormon- 
 ism and every like juggle will become forevei 
 impossible." 
 
 " Certainly ; false religions always pretend to 
 a supernatural origin and a fresh batch of mys- 
 teries. Let Christianity discard its mysteries, 
 and impostors will have no educated credulity 
 to aid them." 
 
 So Brent and I commented upon the . Sizzum
 
 SlZZUil AND HIS HERETICS. 95 
 
 heresy and its mouthpiece. We abhorred the 
 system, and were disgusted with its apostle, as 
 a tempter and a knave. Yet we could not feel 
 any close personal interest in the class he de- 
 luded. They seemed too ignorant and doltish 
 to need purer spiritual food. 
 
 Bodily food had been prepared by the women 
 while the men listened to Sizzum's grace before 
 meat. A fragrance of baking bread had per- 
 vaded the air. A thousand slices of fat pork 
 sizzled in two hundred frying-pans, and water 
 boiled for two hundred coffee or tea pots. Saints 
 cannot solely live on sermons. 
 
 Brent and I walked about to survey the camp. 
 We stopped wherever we found the emigrants 
 sociable, and chatted with them. They were 
 all eager to know how much length of journey 
 remained. 
 
 " We 're comin' to believe, some of us," said 
 an old crone, with a wrinkle for every grumble 
 of her life, " that we 're to be forty year in the 
 wilderness, like the old IzzeruUites. I would n't 
 have come, Samwell, if I 'd known what you was 
 bringin' me to." 
 
 " There 's a many of us would n't have come, 
 mother," rejoined " Samwell," a cowed man of 
 anxious look, " if we 'd known as much as we 
 do now." 
 
 Samwell glanced sadly at his dirty, travel-worn
 
 96 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 children, at work at mud pies and dust vol-au- 
 vents. His dowdy wife broke off the colloquy 
 by^ -announcing, in a tone that she must have 
 learned from a rattlesnake, that the loaf was 
 baked, the bacon was fried, and supper should n't 
 wait for anybody's talking. 
 
 All the emigrants were English. Lancashire 
 their accent and dialect announced, and Lan- 
 cashire they told us was their home in the old 
 step-mother country. 
 
 Step-mother, indeed, to these her children ! 
 No wonder that they had found life at home in- 
 tolerable ! They were the poorest class of towns- 
 people from the great manufacturing towns, — 
 penny tradesmen, indoor craftsmen, factory oper- 
 atives, — a puny, withered set of beings; hardly 
 men, if man means strength ; hardly women, 
 if woman means beauty. Their faces told of 
 long years passed in the foul air of close shops, 
 or work-rooms, or steamy, oily, flocculent mills. 
 All work and no play had been their history. 
 No holidays, no green grass, no flowers, no fresh- 
 ness, — nothing but hard, ill-paid drudgery, with 
 starvation standing over the task and scourging 
 them on. There were children among them al- 
 ready aged and wrinkled, ancient as the crone, 
 Samwell's mother, for any childish gayety they 
 showed. Poor things ! they had been for years 
 their twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours at work in
 
 SIZZUM AND mS HERETICS. 97 
 
 stifling mills, when they should have been tum- 
 bling in the hay, chasing butterflies, expanding 
 to sunshine and open air. 
 
 " We have not seen," said Brent, " one hearty 
 John Bull, or buxom Betsy Bull, in the whole 
 caravan." 
 
 " They look as if husks and slops had been 
 their meat and drink, instead of beef and beer." 
 
 " Beef and beer belong to fellows that have 
 red in their cheeks and guffaws in their throats, 
 not to these lean, pale, dreary wretches." 
 
 " The saints' robes seem as sorry as their per- 
 sons," said I. " No watchman on the hill-tops of 
 their Sion will hail, ' Who are these in bright 
 array ? ' when they heave in sight ! " 
 
 " They have a right to be way-worn, after their 
 summer of plodding over these dusty wastes." 
 
 " Here comes a group in gayer trim. See ! 
 — actually flounces and parasols ! " 
 
 Several young women of the Blowsalind order, 
 dressed in very incongruous toggery of stained 
 and faded silks, passed us. They seemed to be 
 on a round of evening visits, and sheltered their 
 tanned faces against the October sunshine with 
 ancient fringed parasols. Their costume had a 
 queer effect in the camp of a Mormon caravan at 
 Fort Bridger. They were in good spirits, and 
 went into little panics when they saw Brent in 
 his Indian rig, and then into " Lor me ! " and 
 
 5 O
 
 98 JOHN BRE.^T. 
 
 " Bless us ! " when the supposed Pawnee was dis* 
 covered to be a handsome pale-face. 
 
 "Perhaps we waste sympathy," said Brent, 
 " on these people. Why are not they better off 
 here, and likely to bo more comfortable in Utah 
 than in the slums of Manchester ? " 
 
 " Drudgery for drudgery, slavery for slavery, 
 barren as the Salt Lake country is, and rough 
 the lot of pioneers, I have no doubt they will be. 
 But then the religion ! " 
 
 " I do not defend that ; but what has England's 
 done for them to make them regret it ? Of what 
 use to these poor proletaires have the cathedrals 
 been, or the sweet country churches, or the quiet 
 cloisters of Oxford and Cambridge ? I cannot 
 wonder that they have given an easy belief to 
 Mormonism, — an energetic, unscrupulous prop- 
 agandism, offering escape from poverty and social 
 depression, offering acres for the mere trouble 
 of occupying ; promising high thrones in heaven, 
 and on earth also, if the saints will only gather, 
 march back, and take possession of thek old es- 
 tates in Illinois and Missouri." 
 
 We had by this time approached the upper 
 end of the ellipse. Sizzum, as quartermaster, 
 had done his duty well. The great blue land- 
 arks, each roofed with its hood of white canvas 
 stretched on hoops, were in stout, serviceable or- 
 der, wheels, axles, and bodies.
 
 SIZZUM AND fflS HEREIICS. 99 
 
 Within these nomad cottages order or chaos 
 reigned, according to the tenants. Some people 
 seem only to know the value of rubbish. They 
 guard old shoes, old hats, cracked mugs, battered 
 tins, as articles of virtu. Some of the wagons 
 were crowded with such cherished trash. Some 
 had been lightened of such burdens by the way- 
 side, and so were snug and orderly nestling- 
 places ; but the rat's-nests quite outnumbered 
 the wren's-nests. 
 
 A small, neat wagon stood near the head of 
 the train. We might have merely glanced at it, 
 and passed by, as we had done els^-where along 
 the line ; but, as we approached, our attention 
 was caught by Murker and Larrap. They were 
 nosing about, prying into the wagon, from a lit- 
 tle distance. When they caught sight of us, they 
 turned and skulked away. 
 
 " What are those vermin about ? " said Brent. 
 
 " Selecting, perhaps, a Mormoness to kidnap 
 to-night, or planning a burglary." 
 
 " I hate to loathe any one as I loathe those 
 fellows. I have known brutes enough in my 
 life to have become hardened or indifferent hy 
 this time, but these freshen my disgust every 
 time I see them." 
 
 " I thought we had come to a crisis with them 
 this afternoon, when you collared Larrap." 
 
 *' You remember my presentiments about them
 
 100 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 the night they joined us, I am afraid they will 
 yet serve us a shabby trick. Their ' dixonary,' 
 as Shamberlain called it, of rascality is an una- 
 bridged edition." 
 
 " Such carrion creatures should not be allowed 
 about such a pretty cage." 
 
 " It is, indeed, a pretty cage. Some neater- 
 handed Phyllis than we have seen has had the 
 arranging of the household gear within." 
 
 " Yes ; the mistress of this rolling mansion has 
 not lost her domestic ambition. This is quite 
 the model wagon of the train. Refinement does 
 not disdain Sizzum's pilgrims ; as ecce signum 
 here!" 
 
 "The pretty cage has its bird, — pretty too, 
 perhaps. See ! there is some one behind that 
 shawl screen at the back of the wagon." 
 
 " The bird has divined Murker and Larrap, 
 and is hiding, probably." 
 
 " Come ; we have stared long enough ; let us 
 walk on."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 "ELLEN! ELLEN!" 
 
 We were turning away from the pretty cage, 
 in order not to frighten the bird, pretty or not, 
 when an oldish man, tending his fire at the far- 
 tlier side of tlie wagon, gave us " Good evening! " 
 
 There is a small but ancient fraternity in the 
 world, known as the Order of Gentlemen. It is 
 a grand old order. A poet has said that Christ 
 founded it ; that he was " the first true gentle- 
 man that ever lived." 
 
 I cannot but distinguish some personages of 
 far-off antiquity as worthy members of this fel- 
 lowship. I believe it coeval with man. But 
 Christ stated the precept of the order, when he 
 gave the whole moral law in two clauses, — 
 Love to God, and Love to the neighbor. Who- 
 ever has this precept so by heart that it shines 
 through into his life, enters without question 
 into the inner circles of the order. 
 
 But to protect itself against pretenders, this 
 brotherhood, like any other, has its formulas, 
 its passwords, its shibboleths, even its uniform.
 
 102 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 These are external symbols. With some, the 
 symbol is greater than the thing signified. The 
 thing signified, the principle, is so beautiful, that 
 the outward sign is enough to glorify any char- 
 acter. The demeanor of a gentleman — being 
 art, the expression of an idea in form — can be- 
 come property, like any art. It may be an heir- 
 loom in an ancient house, like the portrait of the 
 hero who gave a family name and fame, like the 
 portrait of the maiden martyr or the faithful wife 
 who made that name beloved, that fame poetry, 
 to all ages. This precious inheritance, like any- 
 thing fine and tender, has sometimes been treated 
 with over care. Guardians have been so solici- 
 tous that a neophyte should not lose his inherit- 
 ed rank in the order of gentlemen, that they have 
 forgotten to make a man of him. Culturing 
 the flower, they have not thought to make the 
 stalk sturdy, or even healthy. The demeanor 
 of a gentleman may be possessed by a weakling, 
 or even inherited by one whose heart is not wor- 
 thy of his manners. 
 
 The formulas of this order are not edited ; its 
 passwords are not syllabled ; its uniform was never 
 pictured in a fashion-plate, or so described that a 
 snob could go to his tailor, and say, " Make me 
 the. habit of a gentleman." But the brothers 
 ki><>w each other unerringly wherever they meet ; 
 tp ^hey of the inner shrine, gentlemen heart and
 
 "ELLEN! ELLEN!" 103 
 
 life ; be they of the outer court, gentlemeu in 
 feehug and demeanor. 
 
 No disguise delays this recognition. No strange- 
 ness of place and circumstances prevents it. The 
 men meet. The magnetism passes between them. 
 All is said without words. Gentleman knows gen- 
 tleman by what we name instinct. But observe 
 that this thing, instinct, is character in its finest, 
 keenest, largest, and most concentrated action. 
 It is the spirit's touch. 
 
 John Brent and I, not to be deemed intruders, 
 were walking away from the neat wagon at the 
 upper end of the Mormon camp, when an oldish 
 man beside the wagon gave us " Good evening." 
 " Good evening, gentlemen," said the wan, 
 gray-haired, shadowy man before us. 
 
 And that was all. It was enough. We knew 
 each other ; we him and he us. Men of the same 
 order, and so brothers and friends. 
 
 Here was improbability that made interest at 
 once. Greater to us than to him. We were not 
 out of place. He was, and in the wrong company. 
 Brent and I looked at each other. We had 
 half divined our new brother's character at the 
 first glance. 
 
 How legible are some men ! All, indeed, that 
 have had, or are to have, a history, are books in 
 a well-known tongue to trained decipherers. But 
 some trao-edies stare at us with such an earnest
 
 104 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 dreariness from helpless faces, that we road with 
 one look. We turn away sadly. We have com- 
 prehended the whole history of past sorrow ; we 
 prophesy the coming despair. 
 
 I will not now anticipate the unfinished, mel- 
 ancholy story we read in this new face. An 
 Englishman, an unmistakable gentleman, and in 
 a Mormon camp, — there was tragedy enough. 
 Enough to whisper us both to depart, and not 
 grieve ourselves with vain pity ; enough to im- 
 peratively command us to stay and see whether 
 we, as true knights, foes of wrong, succorers of 
 feebleness, had any business here. The same 
 instinct that revealed to us one of our order 
 where he ought not to be, warned us that he 
 might have claims on us, and we duties toward 
 him. 
 
 We returned his salutation. 
 
 We were about to continue the conversation, 
 when he opened a fresh page of the tragedy. He 
 called, in a voice too sad to be querulous, — a 
 flickering voice, never to be fed vigorous again 
 by any lusty hope, — 
 
 "Ellen! Ellen!" 
 
 " What, father dear ? " 
 
 " The water boils. Please bring the tea, my 
 child." 
 
 "Yes, father dear." 
 
 The answers came from within the wagon.
 
 "ELLEN! ELLEN!" 105 
 
 rhey "were the song of the bird whose nest we 
 had approved. A sad song. A woman's voice 
 can tell a long history of sorrow in a single word. 
 This wonderful instrument, our voice, alters its 
 timbre with every note it yields, as the face 
 changes with every look, until at last the domi- 
 nant emotion is master, and gives quality to tone 
 and character to expression. 
 
 It was a sad, sweet voice that answered the old 
 gentleman's call. A lady's voice, — the voice of 
 a high-bred woman, delicate, distinct, self-pos- 
 sessed. That sound itself was tragedy in such 
 a spot. No transitory disappointment or distress 
 ever imprinted its mark so deeply upon a heart's 
 utterance. The sadness here had been life-long, 
 had begun long ago, in the days when childhood 
 should have gone thoughtless, or, if it noted the 
 worth of its moments, should have known them 
 as jubilee every one ; — a sadness so habitual that 
 it had become the permanent atmosphere of the 
 life. The voice announced the person, and com- 
 manded all the tenderest sympathy brother-man 
 can give to any sorrowful one in the sisterhood 
 of woman. 
 
 And yet this voice, that with so subtle a revela- 
 tion gave us the key of the unseen lady's history, 
 asked for no pity. There was no moan in it, and 
 no plaint. Not even a murmur, nor any rebel 
 bitterness or sourness for defeat. The undertone 
 
 5*
 
 ^OG JOHN BREHT. 
 
 was brave. K not hopeful, still resolute. No 
 despair could come within sound of that sweet 
 music of defiance. The tones that challenge 
 Fate were subdued away ; but not the tones that 
 calmly answer, " No surrender," to Fate's un- 
 timely paean. It was a happy thing to know 
 that, sorrowful as the life might be, here was an 
 impregnable soul. 
 
 There was a manner of half command and 
 half dependence in the father's call to his daugh- 
 ter, — a weak nature, still asserting the control 
 it could not sustain over a stronger. And in her 
 response an indulgence of this feeble attempt at 
 authority. 
 
 Does all this seem much to find in the few sim- 
 ple words we had heard ? The analysis might 
 be made infinitely more thorough. Evetylook, 
 tone, gesture of a man is a symbol of his com- 
 plete nature. If we apply the microscope se- 
 verely enough, we can discern the fine organism 
 by which the soul sends itself out in every act 
 of the being. And the more perfectly developed 
 the creature, the more significant, and yet the 
 more mysterious, is every habit, and every mo- 
 tion mightier than habit, of body or soul. 
 
 In an instant, the lady so sweetly heralded 
 stepped from beneath the hood of the wagon, and 
 sprang to the ground in more busy and cheerful 
 guise than her voice had promised.
 
 "ELLEN! ELLEN!" 107 
 
 Again the same subtle magnetism between lier 
 and us. We could not have been more convinced 
 of her right to absolute respect and consideration 
 if she had entered to us in the dusky light of a 
 rich drawing-room, or if we had been presented 
 in due form at a picnic of the grandest world, 
 with far other scenery than this of a " desart 
 idle," tenanted for the moment by a Mormon 
 caravan. The lady, like her father, felt that wo 
 were gentlemen, and therefore would compre- 
 hend her. She saluted us quietly. There was 
 in her manner a tacit and involuntary protest 
 against circumstances, just enough for dignity. 
 A vulgar woman would have snatched up and 
 put on clumsily a have-seen-better-days air. 
 This lady knew herself, and knew that she could 
 not be mistaken for other than she was. Her 
 base background only made her nobility more 
 salient. 
 
 She did not need any such background, nor 
 the contrast of the drudges and meretricious 
 frights of the caravan. She could have borne 
 fall light without any shade. A woman fit to 
 stand peer among the peerless. 
 
 We could not be astonished at this apparition. 
 We had divined her father rightly, as it after- 
 ward proved. Her voice has already half dis- 
 closed her character. Let her face continue the 
 development. We had already heard her called
 
 108 JOIIN BRENT. 
 
 by her Christian name, Ellen. That seemed to 
 bring us, from the beginning, into a certain inti- 
 macy with the woman as woman, sister, daugh- 
 ter, and to subordinate the circumstances of the 
 life, to be in future suggested by the social name, 
 to the life itself. 
 
 Ellen, then, the unknown lady of the Mormon 
 caravan, was a high-bred beauty. Englishwomen 
 generally lack the fine edge of such beauty as 
 hers. She owed her dark fairness, perhaps, to 
 a Sicilian bride, whom her Norman ancestor had 
 pirated away from some old playground of Pros- 
 erpine, and brought with him to England when 
 he came there as conqueror. Her nose was not 
 quite aquiline. 
 
 Positive aquiline noses should be cut off. They 
 are ugly ; they are immoral ; they are sensual ; 
 they love money ; they enjoy others' misery. 
 The worst birds have hooked beaks ; and so the 
 worst men, the eagles and vultures of the race. 
 Cut off the beaks ; they betoken a cruel pounce, 
 a greedy clutch, and a propensity to carrion. 
 Save the exceptions, but extirpate the brood. 
 
 This lady's nose was sensitive and proud. It 
 is well when a face has its share of pride in the 
 nose. Then the lips can give themselves solely 
 to sweetness and archness. Besides, pride, or, if 
 the word is dreaded, a conscious and resolute 
 personality, should be the characteristic of a face.
 
 "ELLEN! ELLEN!" 109 
 
 The nose should express this quality. Above, the 
 eyes may changefuUy flash intelligence ; below, 
 the mouth may smile affection ; the cheeks may 
 give balance and equability ; the chin may show 
 the cloven dimple of a tender and many-sided, or 
 the point of a single-hearted and concentrated 
 nature ; the brow, a non-committal feature, may 
 look wise or wiseacre ; but every one of them is 
 only tributary to the nose, standing royally m the 
 midst, and with dignity presiding over its way- 
 waird realm. 
 
 Halt ! My business is to describe a heroine, — 
 not to discuss physiognomy, with her face for a 
 type. 
 
 As I said, her nose was sensitive and proud. 
 There might have once been scorn in the curve 
 of her nostril. Not now. Sorrow and pity had 
 educated away the scorn, as they had the tones of 
 challenge from her voice. Firmness, self-respect, 
 latent indignation, remained untouched. A strong 
 woman, whose power was intense and passionate. 
 Calm, till the time came, and then flame. Be- 
 ware of arousing her! Not that there was re- 
 venge in her face. No ; no stab or poison there. 
 But she was a woman to die by an act of will, 
 rather than be wronged. She was one who could 
 hold an insulter by a steady look, while she grew 
 paler, paler, purer, purer, with a more unearthly 
 pureness, until she had crushed the boiling blood
 
 110 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 back into lier heart, and stood before the wretch 
 white and chill as a statue, marble-dead. 
 
 What a woman to meet in a Mormon caravan ! 
 And yet how able to endure whatever a dastard 
 Fate might send to crush her there ! 
 
 Her hair was caught back, and severely chided 
 out of its wish to rebel and be as beautiful as it 
 knew was its desert. It was tendril hair, black 
 enough to show blackness against Fulano's shoul- 
 der. Chide her locks as she might, tliey still 
 insisted upon flinging out here and there a slen- 
 der curling token of their gracefulness, to prove 
 what it might be if she would but let them have 
 their sweet and wilful will. 
 
 Her eyes were gray, with violet touches. Her 
 eyebrows defined and square. If she had had 
 passionate or pleading dark eyes, — the eyes that 
 hardly repress their tears for sorrow or for joy, 
 — and the temperament that such eyes reveal, 
 she would long ago have fevered or wept herself 
 to death. No woman could have looked at the 
 disgusts of that life of hers through tears, and 
 lived. The gray eyes meant steadiness, patience, 
 hope without flinching, and power to master fate, 
 or if not to master, to defy. 
 
 She was somewhat pale, thin, and sallow. 
 Plodding wearily and drearily over those dusty 
 tvastes toward exile could not make her a merry 
 Nut-Brown Maid. Only her thin, red lips proved
 
 "ELLEN! ELLEN!" Ill 
 
 thai there were still blushes lurking out of 
 sight. 
 
 A mature woman ; beyond girlhood, body and 
 soul. With all her grave demeanor, she could 
 not keep down the wiles of gracefulness that ever 
 bubbled to the surface. If she could but be her 
 happy self, what a fair world she would suddenly 
 create about her ! 
 
 She was dressed in rough gray cloth, as any 
 lady might be for a journey. She was evidently 
 one whose resolute neatness repels travel-stains. 
 After the tawdry, draggled silks of the young 
 women we had just seen, her simplicity was 
 charmingly fresh. Could she and they be of 
 the same race of beings ? They were apart as 
 far as coarse from fine, as silvern from brazen. 
 To see her here among this horde was a horror 
 in itself. No horror the less, that she could 
 not blind herself to her position and her fate. 
 She could not fail to see what a bane was 
 beauty here. That she had done so was evi- 
 dent. She had essayed by severe plainness of 
 dress to erase the lady from her appearance. A 
 very idle attempt ! There she was, do what she 
 would, her beauty triumphing over all the wrong 
 she did to it for duty's sake. 
 
 All these observations I made with one glance. 
 Description seems idle when one remembers how 
 eyes can see at a flash what it took aeons to 
 prepare for and a lifetime to form.
 
 112 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Brent and I exchanged looks. This was the 
 result of our fanciful presentiments. Here was 
 visible the woman we had been dreading to 
 find. It still seemed an impossible vision. I al- 
 most believed that the old gentleman's blanket 
 would rise with him and his daughter, like the 
 carpet of Portunatus, and transport them sud- 
 denly away, leaving us beside a Mormon wagon 
 in Sizzum's camp and in the presence of a frowzy 
 family cooking a supper of pork. 
 
 I looked again and again. It was all real 
 There was the neat, comfortable wagon ; there 
 was the feeble, timid old gentleman, pottering 
 about ; there was this beautiful girl, busy with 
 her tea, and smiling tenderly over her father.
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 " Come, gentlemen," said the father, in a lively 
 way. " We are all campaigners. Sit down and 
 take a cup of tea with us. No ceremony. A 
 la guerre, comme a la guerre. I cannot give 
 you Sevres porcelain. I am afraid even my 
 delf is a little cracked ; but we '11 fancy it whole 
 and painted with roses. Now plenty of tea, Ellen 
 dear. Guests are too rare not to be welcomed 
 with our very best. Besides, I expect Brother 
 Sizzum, after his camp duties are over." 
 
 It was inexpressibly dreary, this feeble con- 
 viviality. In the old gentleman's heart it was 
 plain that disappointment and despondency were 
 the permanent tenants. His gayety seemed only 
 a mockery, — a vain essay to delude himself 
 into the thought that he could be happy even 
 for a moment. His voice, even while he jested, 
 was hollow and sorrowful. There was a trepi- 
 dation in his manner, half hope, half fear, as 
 if he dreaded that some one would presently 
 announce to him a desperate disaster, or fancied 
 
 H
 
 114 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 that some sudden piece of good luck was about 
 to befall him, and he must be all attention lest 
 it pass to another. Nothing of the anxiety of 
 a guilty man about him, — of one who hears 
 pursuit in the hum of a cricket or the buzz of 
 a bee ; only the uneasiness of one flying for- 
 ever from himself, and hoping that some chance 
 bliss will hold his flight and give him a moment's 
 forgetfulness. 
 
 We of course accepted the kindly invitation. 
 Civilization was the novelty to us. Tea with a 
 gentleman and lady was a privilege quite un 
 heard of. We should both have been ready to 
 devote ourselves to a woman far less charming 
 than our hostess. But here was a pair — the 
 beautiful daughter, the father astray — whom we 
 must know more of. I felt myself taking a very 
 tender interest in their welfare, revolving plans 
 in my mind to learn their history, and, if it might 
 be done, to persuade the father out of his delu- 
 sion. 
 
 "^ow, gentlemen," said our friend, playing 
 his part with mild gracefulness, like an accom- 
 plished host ; " sit down on the blankets. I can- 
 not give you grand arm-chairs, as I might have 
 done once in Old England, and hope to do if you 
 ever come to see me at my house in Deseret. 
 But really we are forgetting something very im- 
 portant. We have not been formally introduced.
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTEB. 115 
 
 Bless me ! that will never do. Allow me gentle- 
 men to present myself, Mr. Hugh Clitheroe, 
 late of Clitheroe Hall, Clitheroe, Lancashire, — 
 a good old name, you see. And this is my daugh- 
 ter. Miss Ellen Clitheroe. These gentlemen, my 
 dear, will take the liberty to present themselves 
 to you." 
 
 "Mr, Richard Wade, late of California; Mr. 
 John Brent, a roving Yankee. Pray let me aid 
 you Miss Clitheroe." 
 
 Brent took the teakettle from her hand, and 
 filled the teapot. This little domestic office 
 opened the way to other civil services. 
 
 It was like a masquerading scene. My hand- 
 some friend and the elegant young lady bending 
 together over four cracked cups and as many 
 plates of coarse earthenware, spread upon a 
 shawl, on the dry grass. The circle of wagons, 
 the groups of Saints about their supper fires, 
 the cattle and the fort in the distance, made a" 
 strangely unreal background to a woman whose 
 proper place, for open air, was in the ancient 
 avenue of some ancestral park, or standing on 
 the terrace to receive groups of brilliant ladies 
 coming up the lawn. But character is superior 
 to circumstance, and Miss Clitheroe's self-posses- 
 sion controlled her scenery. Her place, wher- 
 ever it was, became her right place. The prairie, 
 and the wagons, and the rough accessories, gave 
 force to her refinement.
 
 116 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe regarded the pair with a dreamy 
 pleasure. 
 
 " Quite patriarchal, is it not ? " said he to me. 
 " I could fancy myself Laban, and my daughter 
 Rachel. There is a trace of the Oriental in her 
 looks. We only need camels, and this would be 
 a scene worthy of the times of the Eastern patri- 
 archs and the plains of the old Holy Land. We 
 of the Latter Day Church think much of such 
 associations ; more I suppose than you world's 
 people." 
 
 And here the old gentleman looked at me 
 uneasily, as if he dreaded lest I should fling 
 in a word to disturb his illusion, or perhaps ridi- 
 cule his fi^ith. 
 
 " I have often been reminded here of the land- 
 scape of Palestine," said I, " and those bare re- 
 gions of the Orient. Your friends in Utah, too, 
 refresh the association by their choice of Biblical 
 names." 
 
 " Yes ; we love to recall those early days when 
 Jehovah was near to his people, a chosen peo- 
 ple, who suffered for faith's sake, as we have 
 done. Li fact, our new faith and new revelation 
 are only revivals and continuations of the old. 
 Our founder and our prophets give us the doc- 
 trines of the earliest Church, with a larger light 
 and a surer confidence." 
 
 He said this with the manner of one who ia
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 117 
 
 repeating for the thousandth time a lesson, a 
 formula which he must keep constantly before 
 him, or its effect will be gone. In fact, his 
 resolute assertion of his creed showed the weak 
 belief. As he paused, he looked at me again, 
 hoping, as I thought, that I would dispute or 
 differ, and so he might talk against contradic- 
 tion, a far less subtle enemy than doubt. As I 
 did not immediately take up the discussion, he 
 passed lightly, and with the air of one whose 
 mind does not love to be consecutive, to another 
 subject. 
 
 "Hunters, are you not ?" said he, turning to 
 Brent. " I am astonished that more of you 
 American gentlemen do not profit by this great 
 buffalo-preserve and deer-park. We send you 
 a good shot occasionally from England." 
 
 " Yes," said my friend. " I had a capital shot, 
 and capital fellow too for comrade, this summer, 
 in the mountains. A countryman of yours. Sir 
 Biron Biddulph. He was wretchedly out of 
 sorts, poor fellow, when we started. Fresh air 
 and bold life quite set him up. A month's 
 galloping with the buffalo, and a fortnight over 
 the cliffs, after the big-horn, would ' put a soul 
 under the ribs of death.' Biddulph left me to go 
 home, a new man. I find that he has stayed in 
 Utah, for more hunting, I suppose." 
 
 Brent was kneeling at Miss Clitheroe's feet,
 
 118 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 holding a cup for her to fill. He turned toward 
 her father as he spoke. At the name of Bid- 
 dulph, I saw that her red lips' promise of pos- 
 sible blushes was no false one. 
 
 " Ah ! " thought I ; " here, perhaps, is the ro- 
 mance of the Baronet's history. No wonder he 
 found England too narrow for him, if this noble 
 woman wovild not smile ! Perhaps he has stopped 
 in Utah to renew his suit, or volunteer his ser- 
 vices. A strange drama ! with new elements of 
 interest coming in." 
 
 I could not refrain from studying Miss Cli- 
 theroe with some curiosity as I thought thus. 
 
 She perceived my inquisitive look. She made 
 some excuse, and stepped into the wagon. 
 
 " Biddulph ! " said the father. " Ellen dear, 
 Mr. Brent knows our old neighbor, Biron Bid- 
 dulph. 0, she has disappeared, ' on hospitable 
 thoughts intent.' I shall be delighted to meet 
 an old friend in Deseret. We knew him inti- 
 mately at home in better days, — no ! in those 
 days I blindly deemed better, before I was illu- 
 mined with the glories of the new faith, and saw 
 the New Jerusalem with eyes of hope." 
 
 Miss Clitheroe rejoined us. She had been ab- 
 sent only a moment, but, as I could see, long 
 enough for tears, and the repression of tears. I 
 should have pitied her more ; but she seemed, in 
 her stout-hearted womanhood, above pity, asking
 
 FATHER ANI> DAUGHTER. 119 
 
 no more than the sympathy the brave have al- 
 ways ready for the sorrowful brave. 
 
 Evidently to change the subject, she engaged 
 Brent agam in his tea-table offices. I looked at 
 that passionate fellovt" with some anxiety. He 
 was putting a large share of earnestness in his 
 manner of holding cups and distributing hard- 
 tack. Why so much fervor and devotion, my 
 friend ? Seems to me I have seen cavaliers be- 
 fore, aiding beauties with like ardor, on the car- 
 pet, in the parlor, over the Sevres and the silver. 
 And when I saw it, I thought, " cavalier ! 
 beauty ! beware, or do not beware, just as you 
 deem best, but know that there is peril ! For 
 love can improvise out of the steam of a teapot 
 a romance as big and sudden and irrepressible as 
 the Afreet that swelled from the casket by the 
 sea-shore in the Arabian story. 
 
 We sat down iipon the grass for our picnic. 
 I should not invite the late Mr. Watteau, or even 
 the extant Mr. Diaz, to paint us. The late Mr. 
 Wattcau's heroes and heroines were silk and 
 satin Arcadians ; they had valets de chambre 
 and filles de chambre, and therefore could be 
 not fully heroes and heroines, if proverbs be 
 true. The present Mr. Diaz, too, charming and 
 pretty as he is, has his place near parterres and 
 terraces, within the reach of rake and broom. 
 Mr. Horace Yernet is equally inadmissible, since
 
 120 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 that martial personage does not comprehend a 
 desert, except with a foreground of blood, smoke, 
 baggy red pantaloons, and mon General on a 
 white horse giving the Legion of Honor to mon 
 enfant on his last legs. But I must wait for 
 some artist with the gayety of Mr. Watteau, the 
 refinement of Mr. Diaz, and the soldierly force 
 of Mr. Vernet, who can perceive the poetry of 
 American caravan-life, and can get the heroine 
 of our picnic at Fort Bridger to give him a sit- 
 ting. Art is unwise not to perceive the materi- 
 als it neglects in such scenes. 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe grew more and more genial as 
 we became better acquainted. He praised the 
 sunshine and the climate. England had nothing 
 like it, so our host asserted. The atmosphere of 
 England crushed the body, as its moral atmos- 
 phere repressed perfect freedom of thought and 
 action. 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen," said he, " I have escaped 
 at last into the region I have longed for. I mean 
 to renew my youth in the Promised Land, — to 
 have my life over again, with a store of the wis- 
 dom of age." 
 
 Then he talked pleasantly of the incidents of 
 his journey, — an impressible being, taking easily 
 the color of the moment, like a child. He liked 
 travel, he said ; it was dramatic action and scene- 
 shifting, without the tragedy or the over-absorb-
 
 FATHER AXD DAUGHTER. 121 
 
 ing interest of dramatic plot. He liked to have 
 facts come to him without being laboriously 
 sought for, as they do in travel. The eye, with- 
 out trouble, took in whatever appeared, and at 
 the end of the day a traveller found himself 
 expanded and educated without knowing it. 
 There was a fine luxury in this, for a mature 
 man to learn again, just as a child does, and 
 find his lessons play. He liked this novel, ad- 
 venturous hfe. 
 
 " Think of it, sir," he said, " I have seen real 
 Indians, splendid fellows, all in their war-paint ; 
 just such as I used to read of with delight in 
 your Mr. Fenimore's tales. And these prai- 
 ries too, — I seem to have visited them already 
 in the works of your charming Mr. Irving, — a 
 very pleasant author, very pleasant indeed, and 
 quite reminding me of our best essayists ; though 
 he has an American savor too. Mr. Irving, I 
 think, did not come out so far as this. This 
 region has never been described by any one 
 with a poetic eye. My brethren in the Church 
 of the Latter Day have their duties of stern 
 apostleship ; they cannot turn aside to the right 
 hand nor to the left. But when the Saints are 
 gathered in, they will begin to see the artistic 
 features of their land. Those Wind River Moun- 
 tains — fine name, by the way — that I saw from 
 the South Pass, — they seem to me quite an 
 
 6
 
 122 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 ideal Sierra. Their blue edges ai\d gleaming 
 snow-peaks were great society for us as we 
 came by. We are very fond of scenery, sir, my 
 daughter and I, and this breadth of effect is very 
 impressive after England. England, you know, 
 sir, is tame, — a snug little place, but quite a 
 prison for people of scope. Lancashire, my old 
 home, is very pretty, but not grand ; quite the 
 contrary. I have grown really quite tired of 
 green grass, and well-kept lawns, and the shaved, 
 beardless, effeminate look of my native country. 
 This rough nature is masculine. It reminds 
 me of the youth of the world. I like to be in 
 the presence of strong forces. I am not afraid 
 of the Orson feeling. Besides, in Lancashire, 
 particularly, we never see the sun ; we see 
 smoke ; we breathe smoke ; smoke spoils the fra- 
 grance and darkens the hue of all our life. 1 
 hate chimneys, sir ; I have seen great fortunes 
 go up them. I might perhaps tell you some- 
 thing of my own experience in looking up a 
 certain tall chimney not a hundred miles from 
 CHtheroe, and seeing ancestral acres fly up it, 
 and ancestral pictures and a splendid old man- 
 sion all going off in smoke. But you are a 
 stranger, and do not care about hearing my old 
 gossip. Besides, what is the loss of houses and 
 lands, if one finds the pearl of great price, 
 and wins the prophet's crown and the saint's 
 throne ? "
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 123 
 
 And here the gray-haired, pale, dreamy old 
 gentlenian paused, and a half-quenched lire glim- 
 mered in his eye. His childish, fanatical am- 
 bition stirred him, and he smiled with a look 
 of triumph. 
 
 I was silent in speechless pity. 
 
 His daughter turned, and smiled with almost 
 tearful tenderness upon her father. 
 
 " I have not heard you so animated for a long 
 time, dear father," she said. " Mr. Wade seems 
 quite to inspire you." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, he has been talking on many 
 very interesting topics." 
 
 I had really done nothing except to bow, and 
 utter those civil monosyllables which are the 
 " Hear ! hear ! " of conversation. 
 
 If I had been silent. Brent had not. While 
 the garrulous old gentleman was prattling on at 
 full speed, I had heard all the time my friend's 
 low, melodious voice, as he talked to the lady. 
 He was a trained artist in the fine art of sym- 
 pathy. His own early sorrows had made him 
 infinitely tender with all that suffer. To their 
 hearts he came as one that had a right to enter, 
 as one that knew their malady, and was com- 
 manded to lay a gentle touch of soothing there. 
 It is a great power to have known the worst 
 and bitterest that can befall the human life, and 
 yet not be hardened. No sufferer can resist
 
 124 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 the fine magnetism of a wise and unintrusive pity. 
 It is as mild and healing as music by night 
 to fevered sleeplessness. 
 
 The lady's protective armor of sternness was 
 presently thrown aside. She perceived that she 
 need not wear it against a man who was brother 
 to every desolate soul, — sisterly indeed, so del- 
 icate was his comprehension of the wants of a 
 woman's nature. In fact, both father and daugh- 
 ter, as soon as they discovered that we were 
 ready to be their friends, met us frankly. It was 
 easy to see, poor souls ! that it was long since 
 they had found any one fit company for them, 
 any one whose presence could excite the care- 
 beguiling exhilaration of worthy society. ) They 
 savored the aroma of good-breeding with appe- 
 tite.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A GHOUL AT THE FEAST. 
 
 Me. Clitheeoe's thoughts loved to recur to his 
 native Lancashire, smoky though its air might 
 be, and clean-shaved the grass of its lawns. I 
 could not help believing that all the enthusiasm 
 of this weak, gentle nature for the bleak plains 
 and his pioneer life was a delusion. It would 
 have been pretty talk for an after-dinner rhap- 
 sody at the old mansion he had spoken of in 
 England. There, as he paced with me, a guest, 
 after pointing out the gables, wings, oriels, 
 porches, that had clustered about the old build- 
 ing age after age, he might have waved it away 
 into a vision, and spoken with disdain of civil- 
 ization, and with delight of the tent and the 
 caravan. It had the flavor of Arcady, and the 
 Golden Age, and the simple childhood of the 
 world, when an enthusiastic Rousseauist Mar- 
 quis talked in '89 of the rights of man and uni- 
 versal fraternity ; it would seem a crazy mockery 
 if the same enthusiast had held the same strain 
 a few years later, in the tumbril, as he rolled
 
 126 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 slowly along through cruel crowds to the guillo- 
 tine. 
 
 Speaking of Lancashire, we fell upon the sub- 
 ject of coal-mining. I was surprised to find that 
 Mr. Clitheroe had a practical knowledge of that 
 business. He talked for the first time without 
 any of his dreamy, vague manner. His informa- 
 tion was full and clear. He let daylight into 
 those darksome pits. 
 
 " I am a mmer, too," said I, " but only of 
 gold, a baser and less honorable substance than 
 coal. Your account has a professional interest 
 to me. You talk like an expert." 
 
 " I ought to be. If I once saw half my for- 
 tune fly up a factory chimney, I saw another 
 half bury itself in a coal-pit. I have been bur- 
 ied myself in one. I am not ashamed to say 
 it ; I have made daily bread for myself and my 
 daughter with pick, shovel, and barrow, in a dark 
 coal-mine, in the same county where I was once 
 the head of the ancient gentry, and where I saw 
 the noblest in the land proud to break my bread 
 and drink my wine. I am not ashamed of it. 
 No, I glory that in that black cavern, where day- 
 light never looked, the brightness of the new 
 faith found me, and showed the better paths 
 where I now walk, and shall walk upward and 
 onward imtil I reach the earthly Sion first, and 
 then the heavenly."
 
 A GHOUL AT THE FEAST. 127 
 
 iigain the old gentleman's eye kindled, and 
 his chest expanded. What a tragic life he was 
 hinting ! My heart yearned toward him. I had 
 never known what it was to have the guidance 
 and protection of a father. Mine died when I 
 was a child. I longed to find a compensation 
 for my own want, — and a bitter one it had 
 sometimes been, — in being myself the guardian 
 of this errant wayfarer, launched upon lethal 
 currents. 
 
 " Your faith is as bright as ever. Brother 
 Hugh," said a rasping voice behind me, as Mr. 
 Clitheroe was silent. " You are an example to 
 us all. The Chiu-ch is highly blessed in such an 
 earnest disciple." 
 
 Elder Sizzum was the speaker. He smiled in 
 a wolfish fashion over the group, and took his 
 seat beside the lady, like a privileged guest. 
 
 " Ah, Brother Sizzum ! " said Mr. Clitheroe, 
 with a cheerless attempt at welcome, very differ- 
 ent from the frank courtesy he had showed to 
 ward us, " we have been expecting you. Ellen 
 dear, a cup of tea for our friend." 
 
 Miss Clitheroe rose to pour out tea for him. 
 Sheep's clothing instantly covered the apostle's 
 rather wolfish demeanor. He assumed a man- 
 ner of gamesome, sheepish devotion. When he 
 called her Sister Ellen, with a famiUar, tender 
 air, I saw painful blushes redden the lady's 
 cheeks.
 
 128 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Brent noticed the pain and the blush. He 
 looked away from the group toward the blue 
 sierra far away to the south ; a hard expression 
 came into his face, such as I had not seen there 
 since the old days of his battling with Swerger. 
 Trouble ahead ! 
 
 Sizzum's presence quenched the party. And, 
 indeed, our late cheerfulness was untimely, at 
 the best. It was mockery, — as if the Marquis 
 should have sung merry chansons in the tum- 
 bril. 
 
 Miss Clitheroe at once grew cold and stern. 
 Nothing could be more distant than her manner 
 toward the saint. She treated him as a high- 
 bred woman can treat a scrub, — sounding with 
 every gesture, and measuring with every word, 
 the ineflfaceable gulf between them. Yet she 
 was thoroughly civil as hostess. She even 
 seemed to fight against herself to be friendly. 
 But it was clear to a by-stander that she loathed 
 the apostle. That she was not charmed with his 
 society, even his coarse nature could not fail to 
 discover. Anywhere else the scene would have 
 been comic. Here he had the power. No es- 
 cape ; n3 refuge. That thrust all comedy out of 
 the drama, and left only very hateful tragedy. 
 Still it was a cruel semblance of comedy over a 
 tragic under-plot, to see the Mormon's cringing 
 approaches, and that exquisite creature's calm
 
 A GHOUL AT THE FEAST. 129 
 
 rebuffs. Sizzum felt himself pinned in his proper 
 place, and writhed there, with an evil look, that 
 said he was noting all and treasuring all against 
 his day of vengeance. 
 
 And the poor, feeble old father, — how all his 
 geniality was blighted and withered away ! He 
 was no more the master of revels at a festival, 
 but the ruined man, with a bailiff in disguise at 
 his dinner-table. Querulous tones murmured in 
 his voice. The decayed gentleman disappeared ; 
 the hapless fanatic took his place. Phrases of 
 cant, and the peculiar Mormon slang and profan- 
 ity, gave the color to his conversation. He ap- 
 pealed to Sizzum constantly. He was at once the 
 bigoted disciple and the cowed slave. Toward his 
 daughter his manner was sometimes timorously 
 pleading, sometimes almost surly. Why could 
 she not repress her disgust at the holy man, at 
 least in the presence of strangers ? — that seemed 
 to be his feeling ; and he strove to withdraw at- 
 tention from her by an eager, trepidating attempt 
 to please his master. In short, the vulgar, hard- 
 headed knave had this weak, lost gentleman thor- 
 oughly in his power. Mr. Clitheroe was like a 
 lamb whom the shepherd intends first to shear 
 close, then to worry to death with curs, and at 
 last to cut up into keebaubs. 
 
 Brent and I kept aloof as much as we might. 
 We should only have insulted the chosen vessel, 
 
 6* 1
 
 130 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 and so injured our friends. Lideed, our pres- 
 ence seemed little welcome to Sizzum. He of 
 course knew that the Gentiles saw through him, 
 and despised him frankly. There is nothing 
 more uneasy than a scrub hard at work to please 
 a woman, while by-standers whom he feels to be 
 his betters observe without interference. But 
 we could not amuse ourselves with the scene ; it 
 sickened us more and more. 
 
 Sunset came speedily, — the delicious, dreamy 
 sunset of October. In the tender regions of twi- 
 light, where the sky, so mistily mellow, met the 
 blue horizon, the western world became a world 
 of happy hope. Could it be that wrong and. sin 
 dwelt there in that valley far away among the 
 mountains ! Baseness where that glory rested ! 
 Foulness underneath that crescent moon ! Could 
 it be that there was one unhappy, one impure 
 heart within the cleansing, baptismal flow of that 
 holy light of evening ! 
 
 With sunset. Elder Sizzum, after some oily 
 vulgarisms of compliment to the lady, walked 
 off on camp duty. 
 
 We also rose to take our leave. We must look 
 ifter our horses. 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe's old manner returned the in- 
 stant his spiritual guide left us. 
 
 " Pray come and see us again this evening, 
 gentlemen," said he.
 
 A GHOUL AT THE FEAST. 131 
 
 " We will certainly," said Brent, looking to- 
 ward Miss Clitlieroe for her invitation. 
 
 It did not come. And I, from my position 
 as Chorus, thought, " She is wise not to en- 
 courage in herself or my friend this brief in- 
 timacy. Mormons will not seem any the better 
 company to-morrow for her relapse into the 
 society of gentlemen to-night." 
 
 " yes ! " said Mr. Clitheroe, interpreting 
 Brent's look ; " my daughter will be charmed 
 to see you. To tell you the truth, our breth- 
 ren in the camp are worthy people ; we sym- 
 pathize deeply in the faith ; but they are not 
 altogether in manners or education quite such 
 as we have been sometimes accustomed to. It 
 is one of the infamous wrongs of our English 
 system of caste that it separates brother men, 
 manners, language, thought, and life. We have 
 as yet been able to have little except religious 
 communion with our fellow-travellers toward 
 the Promised Land, — except, of course, with 
 Brother Sizzum, who is, as you see, quite a man 
 of society, as well as an elect apostle of a great 
 cause. We are quite selfish in asking you to re- 
 peat your visit. Besides the welcome we should 
 give you for yourselves, we welcome you also 
 as a novelty." And then he muttered, half 
 to himself, " God forgive me for speaking after 
 the flesh!"
 
 132 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 ii 
 
 Come, Wade," said my friend. Ajid he 
 griped my arm almost savagely. " Until this 
 evening then, Mr. Clitheroe." 
 
 As we moved away from the wagon, where 
 the lady stood, so worn and sad, and yet so 
 lovely, her poor father's only guard and friend, 
 we met Murker and Larrap, They were saun- 
 tering about, prying into the wagons, inspect- 
 ing the groups, making observations — that were 
 perhaps only curiosity — with a base, guilty, bur- 
 glarious look. 
 
 " He, he ! " laughed Larrap, leering at Brent. 
 " I '11 be switched ef you 're not sharp. You 
 know where to look for the pooty gals, blowed 
 ef yer don't ! " 
 
 " Hold your tongue ! " Brent made a spring 
 at the fellow. 
 
 " No offence ! no offence ! " muttered he, shrink- 
 ing back, with a cowardly, venomous look. 
 
 " Mind your business, and keep a civil tongue 
 in your head, or there will be offence ! " Brent 
 turned and walked off in silence. Neither of 
 us was yet ready to begin our talk on this 
 evening's meeting. 
 
 Our horses, if not their masters, were quite 
 ready for joyous conversation. They had en- 
 countered no pang in the region of Fort Bridger. 
 Grass in plenty was there, and they neighed 
 us good evening in their most dulcet tones.
 
 A GHOUL AT THE FEAST. 133 
 
 They frisked about, and, neighing and frisking, 
 informed us that, in their opinion, the world 
 was all right, — a perfectly jolly place, with abun- 
 dance to eat, little to do, and everybody a 
 friend. A capital world ! according to Pumps 
 and Don Fulano. They felt no trouble, and 
 saw none in store. Who would not be an ani- 
 mal and a horse, unless perchance an omnibus 
 horse sprawling on the Russ pavement, or a fam- 
 ily horse before a carryall, or in fact any horse 
 in slavish position, as most horses are. 
 
 We shifted oiu' little caballada to fresh graz- 
 ing-spots sheltered by a brake. We meant to 
 camp there apart from the Mormon caravan. The 
 talk of our horses had not cheered us. We still 
 busied ourselves m silence. Presently, as I looked 
 toward the train, I observed two figures in the 
 distance lurking about Mr. Clitheroe's wagon. 
 
 " See," said I ; " there are those two gamblers 
 <vgain. I don't like such foul vultures hanging 
 about that friendless dove. They look villains 
 enough for any outrage." 
 
 " But they are powerless here." 
 
 " In the presence of a steadier villany they 
 tire. That foul Sizzum is quite sure of his prey. 
 John Brent, what can be done ? I do not know 
 which I feel most bitterly for, the weary, deluded 
 old gentleman, doubting his error, or that noble 
 girl. Poor, friendless souls ! "
 
 134 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 *' Friendless ! " said Brent. " She has made 
 a friend in me. And in you too, if you are the 
 man I know." 
 
 " But what can we do ? " 
 
 " I will never say that we can do nothing un- 
 til she repels our aid. If she wants help, she 
 must have it." 
 
 "Help! how?" 
 
 " I will find a way or make one. Sidney's 
 thought is always good. You and I can never die 
 in a better cause than this. And now, Dick, do 
 not let us perplex ourselves with baseless talk 
 and 2Dlans. We will see them again to-night, 
 when Sizzum is not by. It cannot be that she 
 is in sympathy with these wretches." 
 
 " No ; that horrible ogre, Sizzum, is evidently 
 disgusting to her ; but here he has her in his 
 den. It is stronger than any four walls in the 
 world, — all this waste of desert." 
 
 " Don't speak of it ; you sicken me." 
 
 Something more in earnest than the tenderest 
 pity here. I saw that the sudden doom of love 
 had befallen my friend. In fact, I have never 
 been quite sure but that the same would have 
 been my fate, if I had not seen him a step in 
 advance, and so checked myself. His time had 
 come. Mine had not. Will it ever ? 
 
 But love here was next to despair. That con- 
 sciousness quickened the passion. A man must
 
 A GHOUL AT THE FEAST. 135 
 
 put his whole being into the cause, or th« cause 
 was hopeless, — must act intensely, as only a 
 lover acts, or not at all. 
 
 I determined not to perplex myself yet with 
 schemes. I knew my friend's bold genius and 
 cool judgment. When he was ready to act, I 
 would back him.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 JAKE SHAMBEELAIN'S BALL. 
 
 It grew dusk. Glimmering camp-fires marked 
 the circle of the Mormon caravan. The wagons 
 seemed each one, in the gloaming, a giant white 
 nightcap of an ogress leaning over her coals. 
 The world looked drowsy, and invited the pil- 
 grims toward the Mecca of the new Thingamy 
 to repose. They did not seem inclined to accept. 
 The tramping and lowing cattle kept up a tumult 
 like the noise of a far city. And presently an- 
 other din ! 
 
 As Brent and I approached the fort, forth 
 issued Jake Shamberlain, with a drummer on 
 this side and a fifer on that. " Pop goes the 
 "Weasel," the fifer blew. A tuneless bang re- 
 sounded from the drum. If there was one thing 
 these rival melodists scorned, time was that 
 one thing. They might have been beating and 
 blowing with the eight thousand miles of the 
 globe's diameter between them, instead of Jake 
 Shamberlain's person, for any consideration thej 
 showed to each other.
 
 JAKE SHAMBERLAIN'S BALL. 137 
 
 Jake, seeing us, backed out from between his 
 orchestra, who continued on, beating and blowing 
 in measureless content. 
 
 " We 're going to give a ball, gentlemen, and 
 request the honor of your company in ten min- 
 utes, precisely. Kids not allowed on account 
 of popular prejudice. Red-flannel shirts and 
 boots with yaller tops is rayther the go fur 
 dress." 
 
 " A ball, Jake ! Where ? " 
 
 " Why, in that rusty hole of old Bridger's. 
 Some of them John Bulls has got their fiddles 
 along. I allowed 't would pay to scare up a 
 dance. Guess them gals wont be the wus fur 
 a break-down or an old-fashioned hornpiper. 
 They hain't seen much game along back, ef 
 their looks tells the story. I never seed sech a 
 down-heel lot." 
 
 Jake ran off after his music. We heard them, 
 still disdaining time, march around the camp 
 announcing the fandango, 
 
 " This helps us," said Brent. " Our friends, 
 of course, will not join the riot. When the 
 Mormons are fakly engaged, we will make our 
 visit." 
 
 " It is a good night for a gallop," said I. 
 
 He nodded, but said nothing. 
 
 Presently Jake, still supported by his pair of 
 melodists, reappeared. A straggling procession
 
 138 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 of Saints followed him. They trooped into the 
 enclosure, a motley throng indeed. Even that 
 dry husk of music, hardly even cadence, had put 
 some spirits into them. Noise, per se, is not 
 without virtue ; it means life. Shamberlain's 
 guests came together, laughing and talking. 
 Their laughter was not liquid. But swallow- 
 ing prairie-dust does not instruct in dulcet 
 tones. Rather wrinkled merriment ; but still 
 better than no merriment at all. 
 
 We entered with the throng. Within was a 
 bizarre spectacle. A strange night-scene for a 
 rough-handed Flemish painter of low life to 
 portray. 
 
 The palisades of old Bridger's Malakoff en- 
 closed a space of a hundred feet square. A 
 cattle-shed, house, and trading-shop surrounded 
 three sides of the square. The rest was open 
 court, paved with clod, the native carpet of the 
 region. Adobes, crumbling as the most straw- 
 less bricks ever moulded by a grumbling He- 
 brow with an Egyptian taskmaster, were the 
 principal material of Bridger's messuage. The 
 cattle on Mr. Mechi's model farm would have 
 whisked their tails and turned away in utter 
 contempt from these inelegant accommodations. 
 No high-minded pig would have consented to 
 wallow there. The khan of Cheronasa, ab- 
 horred of Grecian travellers, is a sweeter place.
 
 JAKE SHAMBERLAIN'S BALL. 189 
 
 The khan of Tiberias, terror of pilgrims, is a 
 cleaner refuge. Bridger's Fort was as musty and 
 infragrant a caravansary as any of those dirty 
 cloisters of the Orient, where the disillusioned 
 howadji sinks into the arms of that misery's bed- 
 fellow, the King of the Fleas, — which kangaroo- 
 legged caliph, let me say, was himself, or in 
 the person of a vigorous vizier, on the spot at 
 the Fort, entertaining us strangers according to 
 his royal notions of hospitality. 
 
 Into this Court of Dirt thronged the Latter- 
 Day Saints, in raiment also in its latter day. 
 
 " The ragamuffin brigade," whispered I to 
 Brent. " Jake Shamberlain's red-flannel shirts 
 and yaller-topped boots would be better than 
 this seediness of the furbelowed nymphs and 
 ole clo' swains. Evidently suits of full dress are 
 not to be hired at a pinch on the boulevards 
 of Sizzumville." 
 
 Brent made no answer, and surveyed the 
 throng anxiously. 
 
 " They have not come, — the father and daugh- 
 ter," he said. " I cannot thmk of the others 
 now." 
 
 " Shall we go to them ? " 
 
 " Not yet. Sizzum sees us and will suspect." 
 
 We stood by regarding, too much concerned 
 for our new friends to feel thoroughly the humor 
 of the scene. But it made its impression.
 
 140 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 For lights at the Shamberlain ball, instead 
 of the gas and wax of civilization, a fire blazed 
 in one corner of the court, and sundry dips 
 of unmitigated tallow, with their perfume un- 
 diluted, flared from perches against the wall. 
 Overhead, up in the still, clear sky, the bare- 
 faced stars stared at the spectacle, and shook 
 their cheeks over the laughable manceuvres of 
 terrestrials. 
 
 The mundane lights, fire and dips, flashed 
 and glimmered ; the skylights twinkled merrily ; 
 the guests were assembled ; the ball waited to 
 begin. 
 
 Jake Shamberlain, the master of ceremonies, 
 cleared a space in the middle, and " called for 
 his fiddlers three." 
 
 A board was laid across two barrels, and upon 
 it Jake arrayed his orchestra, with Brother Bot- 
 tery, so called, for leader. Twang went the fid- 
 dles. " Pardners for a kerdrille ! " cried Jake. 
 
 Sizzum led off the ball with one of the Blow- 
 salinds before mentioned. Dancmg is enjoined 
 in the Latter-Day Church. They cite Jephthah's 
 daughter and David dancing by the ark as good 
 Scriptural authority for the custom. 
 
 " Rio-ht and left ! " cried Jake Shamberlain. 
 " Forrud the gent ! The lady forrud ! Forrud 
 the hull squad. Jerk pardners ! Scrape away, 
 Bottery ! Kick out and no walkin' ! Prance in,
 
 JAKE SHMIBERLAIN'S BALL. 141 
 
 gals ! Lamm ahead, boys ! Time, Time ! All 
 hands round ! Catch a gal and spin her ! Well, 
 that was jest as harnsome a kerdrille as ever I 
 seed." 
 
 And so on with another quadrille, minuet, 
 and quadrille again. But the subsequent dances 
 were not so orderly as the first. Filled with noise 
 and romping, they frequently ended in wild dis- 
 order. The figures tangled themselves into a 
 labyrinth, and the music, drowned by the tumult, 
 ceased to be a clew of escape. Nor could Jake's 
 voice, half suffocated by the dust, be heard above 
 the din, until, having hushed his orchestra, he 
 had called " Halt ! " a dozen times. 
 
 In the intervals between the dances we observed 
 Larrap distributing whiskey to the better class of 
 the emigrants. Sizzum did not disdain to accept 
 the hospitality of the stranger. Old Bridger's 
 liquid stores, now Mormon property, and for sale 
 at the price of Johannisberger, diminished fast 
 on this festal night. 
 
 " Shall we go ? " whispered I to Brent, after a 
 while. 
 
 " Not quite yet. Old Bottery announces that 
 he is going to play a polka. Fancy a polka here ! 
 That will engage Sizzum after his potations, so 
 that he will forget our friends." 
 
 " Now, brethren and samts," cried Jake, " at- 
 tention for the polky ! Pipe up, Bottery ! "
 
 142 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Evidently not the first time that this Strauss of 
 some Manchester casino had played the very rol- 
 licking polka he now rattled off from his strings. 
 How queerly ignoble those strident notes sounded 
 in the silence of night in the great wilderness. 
 For loud as was the uproar in the court, over- 
 head were the stars, quiet and amazed, and, with- 
 out, the great, still prairie protested against the 
 discordant tumult. Some barbaric harmony, wild 
 and thrilling, poured forth from strong-lunged 
 brass, or a strain like that of the horns in Der 
 Freischutz, would have chimed with the spirit of 
 the desert. But Bottery's mean twang suited 
 better the bastard civilization that had invaded 
 this station of the banished pioneer. 
 
 At the sound of the creaking polka, a youth, 
 pale and unwholesome as a tailor's apprentice, 
 led out a sister saint. Others followed. Some 
 danced teetotum fashion. Others bounced clum- 
 sily about. Around them all stood an applaud- 
 ing circle. The fiddles scraped ; the dust flew. 
 Sizzum and Larrap, two bad elements in combi- 
 nation, stood together, cheering the dancers. 
 
 " Come," said Brent, " let us get into purer 
 air and among nobler creatures. How little we 
 thought," he continued, " when we were speak- 
 ing of such scenes and people as we have just 
 left as a possible background, what figures would 
 stand in the foreground ! "
 
 JAKE SHAMBERLAIN'S BALL. 143 
 
 "I am glad to be out of that noisy rabble," 
 said I, as we passed from the gate. " The stars 
 seem to look disdainfully on them. I cannot be 
 entertained by that low comedy, with tragedy 
 sitting beside our friends' wagon." 
 
 " The stars," said Brent, bitterly, " are cold 
 and cruel as destiny. There is heaven overhead, 
 pretending to be calming and benignant, and giv- 
 ing no help, while I am thinking in agony what 
 can be done to save from any touch of shame or 
 deeper sorrow that noble daughter." 
 
 " It is a fine night for a gallop," I repeated. 
 
 " There they are. We must keep them out of 
 the fort. Wade. If you love me, detain the old 
 man in talk for half an hour." 
 
 " Certainly ; half a century, if it will do any 
 good." 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe and his daughter were walking 
 slowly toward the fort. He appealed to us as 
 we approached. 
 
 " I am urging my daughter to join in the 
 amusements of the evening," said he. " You 
 know, my dear, that many of our old Lancashire 
 neighbors still would be pleased to see you a 
 lady patroness of their innocent sports, and lend- 
 ing your countenance to their healthy hilarity. 
 A little gaycty will do you good, I am sure. This 
 ball may not be elegant ; but it will be cheerful, 
 and of course conducted with great propriety,
 
 144 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 since Brother Sizzum is present. I am afraid he 
 will miss us, and be offended. That must not 
 be, Ellen dear. "We must not offend Brother Siz- 
 zum in any way whatever. We must consider 
 that his wishes are sovereign ; for is he not the 
 chosen apostle ? " 
 
 Brent and I could both have wept to hear this 
 crazy, senile stuff. 
 
 " Pray, father dear," said Miss Clitheroe, " do 
 not insist upon it. We shall both be wearied 
 out, if we are up late after our day's march." 
 
 It was clearly out of tenderness to him that 
 she avoided the real objections she must have to 
 6uch a scene. 
 
 " It is quite too noisy and dusty for Miss Cli- 
 theroe in the fort," said I, and I took his arm. 
 " Come, sir, let us walk about and have a chat 
 in the open air." 
 
 I led him off, poor old gentleman, facile un- 
 der my resolute control. All he had long ago 
 needed was a firm man friend to take him in 
 hand and be his despot ; but the weaker he was, 
 the less he could be subject to his daughter. 
 It is the feeble, unmascidine men who fight 
 most petulantly against the influence and power 
 of women. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Wade," said he, "perhaps you are 
 right. We have only to fancy this the terrace 
 outside the chateau, and it is as much according
 
 JAKE SHAMBEELAm'S BALL. 145 
 
 to rule to promenade here, as to stifle in the ball- 
 room. You are very kind, gentlemen, both, to 
 prefer our society to the entertainment inside. 
 Certainly Brother Bottery's violin is not like one 
 of our modern bands ; but when I was your age 
 I could dance to anything and anywhere. I 
 suppose young men see so much more of the 
 world now, that they outgrow those fancies 
 sooner." 
 
 So we walked on, away from the harsh sounds 
 of the ball. Brent dropped behind, talking ear- 
 nestly with the lady. How sibylline she looked 
 in that dim starlight! How Cassandra-like, — 
 as one dreams that heroic and unflinching proph- 
 etess of ills unheeded or disdained !
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 HUGH CLITHEEOE. 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe grew more and more communi- 
 cative, as we wandered about over the open. I 
 drew from liim, or ratlier, witli few words of 
 guidance now and then, let liim impart, his 
 history. He seemed to feel that he had an ex- 
 planation to offer. Men whose life has been er- 
 ror and catastrophe rarely have much pride of 
 reticence. Whatever friendly person will hear 
 their apology can hear it. That form of more 
 lamentable error called Guilt is shyer of the 
 confessional; but it also feels its need of tell- 
 ing to brother man why it was born in the heart 
 in the form of some small sin. 
 
 Again Mr. Clitheroe talked of the scenes of 
 his youhh ind prosperity. He " b!i(r»Lled of green 
 fields," and parks, and great country-houses, and 
 rural life. So he went on to talk of himself, and, 
 leaving certain blanks, which I afterward found 
 the means of filling, told me his story. A sad 
 story ! A pitiful story ! Sadder and more pitiful 
 to me because a filial feeling toward this hapless
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 147 
 
 gentlemau was all the while growmg stronger in 
 my heart. I have already said that I was father- 
 less from infancy. This has left a gTeat want in 
 my life. I cannot find complete compensation 
 for the lack of a father's love in my premature 
 manhood and my toughening against the world 
 too young. I yearned greatly toward the feeble 
 old man, my companion in that night walk on 
 the plain of Fort Bridger. I longed to do by 
 him the duties of sonship ; as, indeed, having no 
 such duties, I have often longed when I found 
 age weak and weary. And as I began to feel 
 son-like toward the father, a sentiment simply 
 brotherly took its place in my heart for the 
 daughter, whose love my friend, I believe, was 
 seeking. 
 
 A sad history was Mr. Clitheroe's. He was a 
 prosperous gentleman once, of one of the ancient 
 families of his country. 
 
 " We belong," he said, " to the oldest gentry 
 of England. We have been living at Clitheroe 
 Hall, and where the Hall now stands, for cen- 
 turies. Our family history goes back into the 
 pre-historic times. We have never been very 
 famous ; we have always sustained our dignity. 
 We might have had a dozen peerages ; but we 
 were too much on the side of liberty, of free 
 speech and free thought, to act with the powers 
 that be.
 
 148 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 " There was never a time, until my day, when 
 one of us was not in Parliament for Clitheroe 
 Clitheroe had two members, and one of the old 
 family that gave its name to the town, and got 
 for it its franchises, was always chosen without 
 contest. 
 
 " It is a lovely region, sir, where the town, of 
 Clitheroe and the old manor-house of my family 
 stand, — the fairest part of Lancashire. If you 
 have only seen, as you say, the flat country 
 about Liverpool and Manchester, you do not 
 know at all what Lancashire can do in scenery. 
 Why, there is Pendle Hill, — it might better be 
 called a mountain, — Pendle Hill rises almost at 
 my door-step, at the door of Clitheroe Hall. 
 Pendle Hill, sir, is eighteen hundred and odd 
 feet high. And a beautiful hill it is. I talked 
 of the "Wind River Mountams this afternoon ; 
 they are very fine ; but I never should have 
 learned to love heights, if my boyhood had not 
 been trained by the presence of Pendle Hill. 
 
 " And there is the Ribble, too. A lovely river, 
 coming from the hills ; — such a stream as I have 
 not seen on this continent. I do not wish to 
 make harsh comparisons, but your Mississippi 
 and Missouri are more like ditches than rivers, 
 and as to the Platte, why, sir, it seems to me 
 no better than a chain of mud-pools. But the 
 Ribble is quite another thing. I suppose I love
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 149 
 
 it more because I have dabbled in it a boy, and 
 bathed in it a man, and have seen it flow on 
 always a friend, whether I was rich or poor. 
 Nature, sir, does not look coldly on a poor man, 
 as humanity does. The river Ribble and Pen- 
 die Hill have been faithful to me, — they and my 
 dear Ellen, always. 
 
 " Perhaps I tire you with this chat," he said. 
 
 " no ! " replied I. " I should be a poor 
 American if I did not love to hear of Mother 
 England everywhere and always." 
 
 " I almost fear to talk about home — our old 
 home, I mean — to my dear child. She might 
 grow a little homesick, you know. And how 
 could she understand, so young and' a woman 
 too, that duty makes exile needful ? Of course 
 I do not mean to suggest that we deem our new 
 home in the Promised Land an exile." 
 
 And here he again gave the same anxious look 
 I had before observed; as if he dreaded that 
 I had the power to dissolve an unsubstantial 
 illusion. 
 
 " I wish I had thought," he continued, " to 
 show you, when you were at tea, a picture of 
 Clitheroe Hall I have. It is my daughter Ellen's 
 work. She has a genius for art, really a genius. 
 We have been hving in a cottage near there, 
 where she could see the Hall from her window, — 
 dear old place ! — and she has made a capital 
 drawing of it."
 
 150 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 " You had left it?" I asked. He liad paused, 
 commanded by his melancholy recollections. 
 
 " yes ! Did I not tell you about my losses 1 
 I was a rich man and prosperous once. I kept 
 open house, sir, in my wife's lifetime. She was 
 a great beauty. My dear Ellen is like her, but 
 she has no beauty, — a good girl and daughter, 
 though, like all young people, she has a juvenile 
 wish to govern, — but no beauty. Perhaps she 
 will grow handsome when we grow rich again." 
 
 " Few women are so attractive as Miss Cli- 
 theroe," I said, baldly enough. 
 
 " I have tried to be a good father to her, sir. 
 She should have had diamonds and pearls, and 
 everything that young ladies want, if I had suc- 
 ceeded. But you ought to have seen Clitheroe 
 Hall, sir, in its best days. Such oaks as I had 
 in my park ! One of those oaks is noticed in 
 Evelyn's Silva. One day, a great many years 
 ago, I found a young man sitting under that 
 oak writing verses. I was hospitable to him, and 
 gave him luncheon, which he ate with very good 
 appetite, if he was a poet. I did not ask his 
 name ; but not three months after I received 
 a volume of poems, with a sonnet among them, 
 really very well done, very well done indeed, 
 inscribed to the Clitheroe Oak. The volume, 
 sir, was by Mr. Wordsworth, quite one of our 
 best poets, in his way, the founder of a new 
 school."
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 151 
 
 '' A very pleasant incident ! " 
 
 •' Yes indeed. The poet was fortunate, was 
 lie not ? But if you are fond of pictures, I 
 should have liked to show you my Vandykes. 
 We had the famous Clitheroe Beauty, an earl's 
 daughter, maid of honor to Queen Henrietta 
 Maria. She chose plain Hugh Clitheroe before 
 all the noblemen of the court ; — we Clitheroes 
 have always been fortunate in that way. I said 
 plain Hugh, but he was as handsome a cavalier 
 as ever wore rapier. He might have been an 
 earl himself, but he took the part of liberty, and 
 was killed on the Parliament side at Edgemoor. 
 I had his portrait too, a Vandyke, and one of 
 the best pictures he ever painted, as I believe is 
 agreed by connoisseurs. You should have seen 
 the white horse, sir, in that picture, — full of 
 gentleness and spirit, and worthy the handsome 
 cavalier just ready to mount him." 
 
 As the old gentleman talked of his heroic 
 ancestor, a name not unknown to history, he 
 revived a httle, and I saw an evanescent look 
 of his daughter's vigor in his eye. It faded 
 instantly ; he sighed, and went on. 
 
 "I should almost have liked to live in those 
 days. It is easier to die for a holy cause than 
 to find one's way along through life. I have 
 found it pretty hard, sir, — pretty hard, — and 
 I hope my day of peace is nearly come."
 
 152 JOKN BEENT. 
 
 How could I shatter his delusion, and thunder 
 in his ear that this hope was a lie ? 
 
 " I had a happy time of it," he continued, 
 " till after my Ellen's birth, and I ought to be 
 thankful for that. I had my dear wife and hosts 
 of friends, — so I thought them. To be sure 
 I spent too much money, and sometimes had 
 rather too gay an evening over the claret at 
 my old oak dining-table. But that was harm- 
 less pleasure, sir. I was always a kind landlord. 
 I never could turn out a tenant nor arrest a 
 poacher. I suppose I was too kind. I might 
 better have saved some of the money I gave to 
 my people in beef and beer on holidays. But 
 it made them happy. I like to see everybody 
 happy. That was my chief pleasure. The peo- 
 ple were very poor in England then, sir, — not 
 that they are not poor now, — and I used to 
 be very glad when a good old English holiday, 
 or a birthday, gave me a chance to give them a 
 little festival." 
 
 I could imagine him the gentle, genial host. 
 Fate should have left him there in the old 
 hall, dispensing frank hospitality all his sunny 
 days and bland seasons through, lunching young 
 poets, and showing his Vandykes with proper 
 pride to strangers. His story carried truth on 
 its face. In fact, the man was all the while an 
 illustration of his own tale. Every tone and 
 phrase convicted him of his own character.
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 153 
 
 " It sometimes makes me a little melanclioly," 
 he continued, " to speak of those happy days. 
 Not that I regret the result I have at last at- 
 tained ! Ah, no ! But the process was a hard 
 one. I have suffered, sir, suffered greatly on my 
 way to the peace and confidence I have attained." 
 
 " You have attained these ? " I said. 
 
 " Yes ; thank God and this Latter-Day reve- 
 lation of his truth ! I used to think rather 
 carelessly of religion in those times. I suppose 
 it is only the contact with sin and sorrow that 
 teaches a man to look from the transitory to 
 the eternal. Shade makes light precious, as an 
 artist would say. I was brought up, you know, 
 sir, in the Church of England ; but when I be- 
 gan to think, its formalism wearied me. I could 
 not understand what seemed to me then the 
 complex machinery of its theology. I thought, 
 sir, as no doubt many people of the poetic tem- 
 perament and little experience think, that God 
 deals with men without go-betweens; that ho 
 acts directly on the character by the facts of 
 nature and the thoughts in every soul. It was 
 not until I grew old and sad that I began to 
 feel the need of something distinct and tangi- 
 ble to rest my faith upon, and even then, sir, 
 I was sceptical of the need of revelations and 
 Messiahs and miracles, until I learnt througn 
 the testimony of living witnesses — yes, of living 
 
 7*
 
 154 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 witnesses — that such things have come in the 
 Latter Day. Yes, sir, the facts of what you call 
 Mormonism, its miracles, its revelations, which 
 do not cease, and its new Messiah, have proved 
 to me the necessity of other like supernatural 
 systems in the past, and given me faith in their 
 evidences, which before seemed scanty." 
 
 " Ah ! old Mother Church of England ! " I 
 thought, " could you do no better by your son 
 than this ? Whose fault is this credulity ? How 
 is it that he needs phenomena to give him faith 
 in truth?" 
 
 " But I have not told you," the old gentle- 
 man went on, " about my disasters. Perhaps 
 you are getting tired of my prattle, sir, my old 
 man's talk. I am really not so very old, if 
 my hair is thin, and my beard gray, — barely 
 fifty, and after this journey I expect to be quite 
 a boy again. I suppose you were surprised this 
 afternoon, when I spoke of having worked in a 
 coal-mine, were you not ? " 
 
 The old man seemed to have some little pride 
 in this singularity of fortune. I expressed the 
 proper interest in such a change of destiny. 
 
 " You shall hear how it happened," he said. 
 " You remember, — no, you are too young to 
 remember, but you have heard how we all went 
 mad about mills and mines in Lancashire some 
 twenty years ago."
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 155 
 
 " Yes," said I, " it was then that steam and 
 cotton began to understand each other, and coal 
 and negroes became important." 
 
 " What a panic of speculation we all rushed 
 into in Lancashire ! " said the old gentleman. 
 " We all felt, we gentlemen, that we were mere 
 idlers, not doing our duty, as England expects 
 every man to do, unless we were building chim- 
 neys, or digging pits. We were all either grub- 
 bing down in the bowels of the earth for coal, 
 or rearing great chimneys up in the air to burn 
 it. I really think most of us began to like 
 smoke better than blue sky ; certainly it tasted 
 sweeter to us than our good old English fog. 
 
 " Well, sir," continued he, " I was like my 
 neighbors. I must dabble in milling and min- 
 ing. I was willing to be richer. Lideed, as soon 
 as I began to speculate, I thought myself richer. 
 I spent more money. I went deeper uito my 
 operations. One can throw a great treasure into 
 a coal-mine without seeing any return, and can 
 send a great volume of smoke up a chimney be- 
 fore the mill begins to pay. It is an old story. 
 I will not tire you with it. I was all at once a 
 ruined man." 
 
 He paused a moment, and looked about the 
 dim, star-lit prairie, with the white wagons and 
 the low fort in the distance. 
 
 " Well," said he, in the careless, airy manner
 
 156 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 which seemed his characteristic one, " if I had 
 not been ruined, I should liave stayed stupidly at 
 home, and never worked in a coal-mine, or trav 
 elled on the plains, or had the pleasure of meet- 
 ing you and your friend here. It is all fresh and 
 novel. If it were not for my daughter and my 
 duties to the church, I should take my adven- 
 tures as lightly as you do when your gun misses 
 fire and you lose a dinner. 
 
 " The thing that troubled me most at the time 
 of my disasters," he resumed, "was being de- 
 feated for Parliament. There had always been a 
 Clitheroe there. When my father died, I took 
 his seat. I used to spend freely on elections ; but 
 I thought they sent me becaiise they liked me, or 
 for love of the old name. When I lost my for- 
 tune there came a snob, sir, and stood against me. 
 He accused me of being a free-thinker, — as if 
 the Clitheroes had not always been liberal ! He 
 got up a cry, and bought votes. My own tenants, 
 my old tenants, whom I had feasted out of pure 
 good-will a hundred times, turned against me. 
 I lost my election and my last shilling. 
 
 " It was just then, sir, that my dear wife died, 
 and my dear Ellen was born." 
 
 He turned sadly around to look at his daugh- 
 ter. She was walking at some distance with 
 Brent. The earnest murmur of their voices 
 came to us through the stillness. I felt what my 
 friend must be saying in that pleading tone.
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 157 
 
 " Everything went disastrously with me," con- 
 tinued Mr. Clitheroe. "I tried to recover my 
 fortunes, fairly and honestly, but it was too late. 
 My creditors took the old Hall. Hugh Clitheroe 
 in Harry the Eighth's time built it, on land 
 where the family had lived from before Egbert. 
 I lost it, sir. The family came to an end with 
 me. I found sheriff's officers making beer rings 
 on my old oak dining-table. The Vandykes 
 went. Hugh of Cromwell's days was divorced 
 from his wife, the Beauty. I tried to keep them 
 together; but scrubs bought them, and stuck 
 them up in their vulgar parlors. Sorry busi- 
 ness ! Sorry business ! " 
 
 " You kept a brave heart through it all." 
 
 " Yes, until they accused me of dishonesty. 
 That I felt bitterly. And everybody gave me 
 the cold shoulder. I could get nothing to do. 
 There is not much that a broken-down gentle- 
 man can do ; but no one would trust me. I 
 grew poorer than you can conceive. I lost all 
 heart. Men are poor creatures, — as a desolate 
 man finds." 
 
 "Not all, I hope," was my protest. 
 
 " Truly not all. But the friends of prosperity 
 are birds that come to be fed, and fly away when 
 the crumbs give out. All are not base and time- 
 serving ; but men are busy and careless, and 
 fancy that others can always take care of them-
 
 158 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 selves. I could not beg, sir ; but it came near 
 starvation tome in Christian England, — to me 
 and my young daughter, within a year after my 
 misfortunes. Perhaps I was over-proud or over- 
 vain ; but I grew tired of the slights of people 
 that had known me in my better days, and now 
 dodged me because I was shabby and poor. I 
 wanted to get out of sight of the ungrateful, 
 ungracious world. The blue sky grew hateful to 
 me. I must live, or, if life was nothing to me, 
 my daughter must not starve, I had a choice of 
 factory or coal-mine to hide myself in. I sank 
 into a coal-mine." 
 
 " A strange contrast ! " I said, after a pause. 
 
 " I am trying to make the whole history less 
 dreamy. Each seems unreal, — my luxurious 
 life at Clitlieroe Hall, and my troglodyte life 
 down in the coal-pit. Idler and slave ; either 
 extreme had its own special unhappiuess and 
 unhealthiness." 
 
 How much wisdom there was in the weakness 
 of the old man's character ! The more I talked 
 with him, the more pitiable seemed his destiny. 
 "0 John Brent!" I groaned in my heart, "plead 
 with the daughter as man never pleaded before. 
 We must save them from the dismal fate before 
 them. And if she cannot master her father, and 
 you, John Brent, cannot master her, there is no 
 hope."
 
 HUGH CLITHEEOE. 159 
 
 My friend made no sign that he was ready to 
 close his interview with the lady. The noise of 
 the ball still came to us with the puffs of the 
 evening wind. I prompted the communicative 
 old gentleman to renew his story. 
 
 " I have seen the interior of some of the Lan- 
 cashire mines ; I have read the Blue Book upon 
 them," I said. " You must have been in a 
 rough place, with company as rough." 
 
 " It was hard for a man of delicate nurture. 
 But the men liked me. They were not brutes, — 
 not all, — if they were roughs. Brutes get away 
 from places where hard work is done. My mates 
 down in the mine made it easy for me. They 
 called me Gentleman Hugh. I was rather 
 proud, sir, I confess, to find myself liked and 
 respected for what I was, not for what I had. It 
 was a hard life and a rough life ; but it was an 
 honest life, and my child was too young to miss 
 what her birth entitled her to. 
 
 " It was in our mine that I first knew of the 
 Latter-Day Church. For years I had drudged 
 there, and never thought, or in fact, for myself, 
 much cared, to come out. I had tried the pleas- 
 ures and friendships of gay life ; they had noth- 
 ing new or good to give me. For years I had 
 toiled, when the first apostle came out and began 
 to make proselytes to the faith in our country. 
 They have never disdained the mean and the
 
 160 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 lowly. I tell you, sir, that we in our coal-pit, 
 and our brothers in the factories, listened to apos- 
 tles who came across seas and labored amons: us 
 as if they loved our souls. The false religions 
 and outgrown religions left us in the dark ; but 
 the true light came to us. My mates in the 
 Lancashire mine joined the church by hundreds. 
 I was still blind and careless. It was not until 
 long afterwards that the time for my conversion 
 came. 
 
 " As my daughter grew up, I felt that I ought 
 to be by her. I had worked a long time in the 
 mine, and was known to have some education. 
 The company gave me a clerkship in their office, 
 and there I drudged again for years, asking no 
 help or favor. It was in another part of the 
 county from my old residence, where nobody 
 knew me. My dear child, — she has always been 
 a good child to me, except that she sometimes 
 wishes to rule a little too much, — my dear Ellen 
 became almost a woman, and all I lacked was 
 the means of giving her the position of her rank. 
 Education she got herself. We were not un- 
 happy, she and I together, lonely as we might be, 
 and out of place." 
 
 The old gentleman had been talking of liim- 
 self in such a cheerful, healthy way, and showed 
 that he had borne such a brave heart through his 
 troubles, that I began to puzzle myself what
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 161 
 
 could have again changed his character, and 
 made of him the weakHng I had recognized in 
 the interview with Sizzum. 
 
 " It is very kind of you," he said, "to listen to 
 a garrulous old fellow. Your sympathy is very 
 pleasant ; but I must not test it too far. I will 
 end my long story presently. 
 
 " I supposed myself entirely forgotten, as I 
 was quite wilhng to be. By and by I was re- 
 membered and sought. A far-away kinsman 
 had left me a legacy. It was enough for a 
 quiet subsistence for us two, for Ellen and me. 
 I returned to the neighborhood of my old home. 
 I found a little cottage on the banks of Kibble, 
 witliin sight of my old fiiend, Pendle Hill. 
 There we lived." 
 
 From this point Mr. Clitheroe's manner totally 
 changed. His voice grew peevish and complain- 
 ing. All the manly feeling he had showed in 
 briefly describing his day-laborer's hfe passed 
 away. He detailed to me how the new proprie- 
 tor at Clitheroe Hall patronized him insufferably ; 
 how his old neighbors turned up their noses at 
 him, and msulted him by condescension. How 
 miserable he found it to cramp himself and save 
 shillings in a cottage, with the house in sight 
 where he had lavished pounds as Lord of the 
 Manor ! How he longed to have his daughter as 
 well dressed as any of the young ladies about,
 
 162 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 lier inferiors in blood, — for no one there could 
 rival the Clitheroes' lineage. How he wished 
 himself back in his mine, in his industrious 
 clerkship, and how time hung drearily on his 
 hands, with nothing to do except dream of by- 
 gone glories. I saw that he had sighed to be a 
 great man again, and had a morbid sense of his 
 insignificance, and that this had made him 
 touchy, and alienated well-meaning people about 
 him. He spoke with some triumph of his argu- 
 ments with the rector of his parish, who endeav- 
 ored to check him when he lent what injfluence 
 he had, as a gentleman, to get the Mormons a 
 hearing about Clitheroe. He did not, as he said, 
 as yet feel any great interest in their doctrines ; 
 but he remembered them with good-will from his 
 coal-pit days, and whenever an emissary of the 
 faith came by, he always found a friend in Hugh 
 Clitheroe. They had evidently flattered him. 
 It was rare, of course, to find a protector among 
 the gentry, and they made the most of the 
 chance. 
 
 Poor old man ! I could trace the progress 
 of his disappointment, and his final fall into that 
 miserable superstition. He had been a free-think- 
 er ; never industrious or self-possessed enough 
 to become a fundamental thinker. No man can 
 stand long on nothing, — he must think out a 
 religion, or accept a theology. Now that busy
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 163 
 
 days were over, and careless youth gone by, 
 Mr. Clitberoe began to be uneasy, and was ready 
 to listen to any scheme which promised peace. 
 If a Jesuit had happened to find him at this 
 period, Rome would have got a recruit with- 
 out difficulty. The Pope and Brigham Young 
 are the rival bidders for such weaklings in the 
 nineteenth century. Brigham with polygamy 
 is the complement of Fio with cehbacy. 
 
 Instead of Jesuit, Sizzum arrived. Sizzum 
 was far abler than any of his Mormon com- 
 peers. He was proselyting about Clitheroe, 
 where he found it not difficult to persuade the 
 poor slaves up in the mill and down in the 
 mine to accept a faith that offered at once a 
 broad range on earth, and, in good time, a high 
 seat in heaven. 
 
 Sizzum was the guest of the discontented and 
 decayed gentleman. He saw the opportunity. 
 There was an old name and a man of gentle 
 birth to rally followers about. It would be a 
 triumph for the Latter-Day Saints to march 
 away from Clitheroe, a thousand strong, headed 
 by the representative of the family who named 
 the place, and had once been in Parliament foi 
 it. Here was a proselyte in a class which no 
 Mormon had dreamed of approaching. Here 
 too was some little property. And here was 
 a beautiful daughter.
 
 164 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 I could divine the astute Sizzum's method 
 and success with his victim, enfeebled in body 
 and spirit. How, seeing his need of something 
 final and authoritative in religion, Sizzum showed 
 him the immanence of inspiration in his church. 
 How he threatened him with wrath to come, 
 unless he was gathered from among the Gen- 
 tiles, How he persuaded him that a man of his 
 education and station would be greater among 
 the saints than ever in his best days in Eng- 
 land. How he touched the old man's enthu- 
 siasm with tales of caravan life, with the dust 
 of the desert and the pork of the pan quite 
 left out of view. How, with his national exag- 
 geration run riot, he depicted the valley of tlie 
 ■Great Salt Lake as a Paradise, and the City 
 ds an apocalyptic wonder, all jasper and sar- 
 lonyx, all beryl and chrysoprase ; and no mud 
 and no adobe. How he suggested that in a 
 new country, under his advice, the old man's 
 little capital would soon swell to a great in- 
 heritance for his daughter. 
 
 By the light of that afternoon's scene, over 
 the tea, I could comprehend the close of Mr. 
 Clitheroe's dreary story, and see how at last 
 Sizzum had got him in his gripe, property, per- 
 son, and soul. 
 
 Did he wish to escape ? 
 
 No. On ! on ! he must go on. Only some
 
 HUGH CLITHEROE. 165 
 
 force without himself, interposed, could tarn 
 him aside. 
 
 What was this force to be ? 
 
 Nothing that I could say or do ; that I saw 
 clearly. His illusions might be nearly gone ; 
 but he would hate and distrust any one who 
 ventured to pull the scales from Ids eyes, and 
 show him his crazy folly. Lideed, I dreaded 
 lest any attempt to enlighten him would drive 
 him into actual madness by despair. K he 
 had given me a shadow of encouragement, 1 
 was ready to follow out the hint I had dropped 
 when I said to Brent, " What a night for a 
 gallop!" My own risk I was willing to take. 
 But escape for the lady, without him, was bar- 
 barous, and we could not treat him like a Sa- 
 bine damsel, and lug him off by the hair. 
 
 What could his daughter do ? Clearly noth- 
 ing. He had evidently long ago revolted against 
 her. K I did not mistake her faithful face, she 
 would stand by her father to the last. Plead as 
 he might, John Brent would never win her to 
 save herself and lose her father ; and indeed that 
 was a desertion he could never recommend. 
 
 A dark look for all parties. 
 
 Whence was the force to come that should 
 solve the difficulty ?
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 A LOVER. 
 
 Two long hours I had kept Mr. CUtheroe in 
 talk. For my friend's sake I would have pro- 
 longed the interview indefinitely. For my own, 
 too. He was a new character to me, this gentle 
 soul, so sadly astray. My filial feeling for him 
 deepened momently. And as my pity grew more 
 exquisitely painful, I shrank still from quitting 
 him, and so acknowledging that the pity was 
 hopeless. 
 
 We approached the fort. The fiddlers three 
 were dragging their last grumbling notes out of 
 drowsy strings. The saints began to stream by 
 toward their wagons. We turned away to avoid 
 recognition. 
 
 Miss Clitheroe and Brent joined us, — a sadder 
 pair than we. The stars showed me the glim- 
 mer of tears in her eyes. But her look was 
 brave and steady. She left my friend, and laid 
 her hand on her father's arm. A marked like- 
 ness, and yet a contrast more marked, between 
 these two. He had given her his refinement, a
 
 A LOVEK. 167 
 
 quality so in Mm and of him that lie colored 
 whatever came near him with an emanation from 
 himself, and so was blinded to its real crude 
 tints. By this medium he made in his descrip- 
 tion that black hole of a coal mine, where so 
 many of his years had been buried, a grotto of 
 enchantment. He filled the world with illusions. 
 Whatever was future and whatever was past, 
 seen through his poetic imagination, seemed to 
 him so beautiful, or so strange and interesting, 
 that he lost all care for the discomforts of the 
 present. And this same refinement of nature 
 deluded him in judging character. Bad and 
 base motives seemed to him so ugly, that he 
 ^•efused to see them, shrank from belief in 
 them, and insisted upon trusting that men were 
 (is honorable as himself. He was a man for 
 prosperity. What did fate mean by maltreating 
 him with the manifold adversities of his hfe ? 
 To what end was this sad error ? 
 
 A strange contrast, with all the likeness, be- 
 tween his daughter and him. A more vigorous 
 being had mingled its life with hers. Or perhaps 
 the stern history of her early days had taught 
 her to forge the armor of self-protection. She 
 seemed to have all her father's refinement, but 
 she used it to surround and seclude herself, not 
 to change and glorify others. Godiva was not 
 more dehcately hidden from the vulgar world by
 
 168 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 the mantle of her own golden hair, than this 
 sweet lady by her veil of gentle breeding. 
 
 As she took her father's arm to lead him away 
 to the camp, I could read in her look that there 
 were no illusions for her. But she clave to her 
 father, — the blinder and more hopelessly errant 
 he might be, the closer she clave. He might 
 reject her guidance ; she still stood by to protect 
 him, to sweeten his life, and when the darkness 
 came, which she could not but foresee, to be a 
 light to him. However adversity had thus far 
 failed to teach him self-possession, it had made 
 her a heroine and a martyr, — a noble and un- 
 selfish soul, such as, one among the myriads, 
 God educates to shame the base and the trifling, 
 and to hearten and inspire the true. 
 
 " Now, dear father," she said, " we must bid 
 these kind friends good night. We start early. 
 We need rest." 
 
 She held out her hand to me. 
 
 " Dear lady," said I, taking her aside a mo- 
 ment while Brent spoke to Mr. Clitheroe, " we 
 are acquaintances of to-day ; but campaigners 
 must despise ceremony. Your father has told 
 me much of your history. I infer your feel- 
 ings. Consider me as a brother. Nothing can 
 be done to aid you ? " 
 
 " Your kindness and your friend's kindness 
 touch me greatly. Nothing can be done."
 
 A LOVER. 16y 
 
 She sobbed a little. I still held her hand. 
 
 " Nothing ! " said I, " nothing ! Will you go 
 on with these people? you, a lady! with your 
 fate staring you in the face ! " 
 
 She withdrew her hand and looked at me 
 steadily with her large gray eyes. "What a 
 woman to follow into the jaws of death ! 
 
 " My fate," she said, " can be no worse than 
 the old common fate of death. That I accept, 
 any other I defy. God does not leave the wor- 
 thy to shame." 
 
 " We say so, when we hope." 
 
 "I say it and believe." 
 
 " Come, Ellen dear," called her father. 
 
 There was always between them, whenever 
 they spoke, by finer gentleness of tone and words 
 of endearment, a recognition of how old and close 
 and exclusive was their union. Only when Siz- 
 zum was present at tea, the tenderness, under 
 that coarsening mfluence, passed away from the 
 father's voice and manner, making the daugh- 
 ter's more and more tender, that she might win 
 him back to her. 
 
 " Good bye ! " she said. " We shall remember 
 each other kindly." 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen," said Mr. Clitheroe. " This 
 has been quite the pleasantest episode of our 
 journey. You must not forget us when you are 
 roaming through this region again." 
 
 8
 
 170 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 He said this with his light, cheerful manner 
 They turned away. It seemed as if Death arose 
 and parted us. We followed at a distance and 
 watched them safe to their wagon. The night 
 wind had risen, and went sighing over the desert 
 reaches, bringing with it the distant howling of 
 wolves. 
 
 " Do not speak to me," said Brent, " I will 
 talk to you by and by." 
 
 He left me and went toward our horses. It 
 had been imprudent to leave them so long at 
 night, with bad spirits about. 
 
 I looked into the fort again. The dancers 
 had gone. Bottery was fumbling drunkenly 
 over his fiddle. A score of men were within 
 the house carousing. Old Bridger's whiskey 
 had evidently flowed freely. In on^ corner 
 Larrap had unrolled a greasy faro-cloth and 
 was dealing. Murker backed him. They were 
 winning largely. They bagged their winnings 
 out of sight, as fast as they fell in. Sizzum, 
 rather to my surprise, was a little excited with 
 liquor, and playing recklessly, losing sovereigns 
 by the handful. As he lost, he became furious. 
 He struck Larrap in the face and called him 
 cheat. Larrap gave him an ugly look, and then, 
 assuming a boozy indifference, caught Sizzum 
 by the hand and vowed he was his best friend. 
 Murker kept aloof from the dispute. The game
 
 A LOVER. 171 
 
 began again. Again Sizziim and the Mormons 
 lost. Again Sizzum slapped the dealer, and, 
 catching the faro-cloth, tore it in two. The two 
 gamblers saw that they were in danger. They 
 had kept themselves sober and got the others 
 drunk for such a crisis. They hurried out of 
 the way. Sizzum and his brother saints chased 
 them ; but presently, losing sight of them in the 
 dusk, they staggered off toward camp, singing 
 uproariously. Their leader on this festival had 
 somewhat forgotten the dignity of the apostle 
 and captain. 
 
 This low rioting was doubly disgusting to me, 
 after the sad evening with our friends. I found 
 Sizzum more offensive as a man of the world 
 than as a saint. I say man of the world, be- 
 cause the gambling scenes of nominal gentle- 
 men are often just as hateful, if more decorous, 
 than those of that night. I walked slowly off 
 toward camp, sorrowful and sick at heart. Base- 
 ness and vulgarity had never seemed to me so 
 base and vulgar tiU now. 
 
 I suddenly heard a voice in the bushes. Ifc 
 was Larrap. He was evidently persuading his 
 comrade to some villany. I caught a suspicious 
 word or two. 
 
 " Ah ! " thought I, " you want our horses. 
 We will see to that." 
 
 I walked softly by. Brent was seated by the
 
 172 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 embers of a camp-fire, cowered ia a heap, like 
 a cold Indian. He raised his face. All the 
 light had gone out of him. This trouble had 
 suddenly worn into his being, like the shirt 
 of Nessus, and poisoned his life. 
 
 " John," said I, " I never knew you despond- 
 ent before." 
 
 " This is not despondency." 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " Despair." 
 
 " I cannot offer to cheer you." 
 
 " It is bitter. Wade. I have yearned to be 
 a lover for years. All at once I find the woman 
 I have seen and thought of, and known from my 
 first conscious moment. The circumstances 
 crowded my love into sudden intensity. I 
 made the observations and did the work of 
 months of acquaintance in those few moments 
 while we were at tea. My mind always acts 
 quick. I seem always to have been discussing 
 my decisions with myself, years before the sub- 
 ject of decision comes to me. Whatever hap- 
 pens, falls on me with the force of a doom. I 
 loved Miss Clitheroe's voice the instant I heard 
 its brave tenderness answering her father. I 
 loved her unseen, and would have died for her 
 that moment. When she appeared, and I saw 
 her face and read her heart, I knew that it was 
 the old dream, — the old dream that I never
 
 A LOVER. 173 
 
 thought would be other than a dream. The 
 ancient hope and expectation, coeval with my 
 life, was fulfilled. She is the other self I have 
 been waiting for and seeking for." 
 
 " Have you told her so ? " 
 
 " Can a man stop the beating of his heart ? 
 Can a man not breathe ? Not in words, perhaps 
 I did not use the lover words. But she under- 
 stood me. She did not seem surprised. She 
 recognizes such a passion as her right and 
 desert." 
 
 " A great-hearted woman can see how a man 
 worthy of her can nulhfy time and space, and 
 meet her, soul to soul, in eternity from the first." 
 
 " So I meet her ; but circumstances here are 
 stronger than love." 
 
 " Can she do nothing with her father ? " 
 
 "Nothing. She failed in England when this 
 delusion first fell upon him." 
 
 " Did she know what it meant for her and 
 him?" 
 
 " Hardly. She even fancied that they would 
 be happier in America than at home, where she 
 saw that his old grandeur was always reproach 
 uig him." 
 
 " Did he conceal from her the goal and object 
 of his emigration? " 
 
 " She knew he was, or supposed himself to be, 
 a Mormon. But Mormonism was little more
 
 174 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 than a name to her. She believed his perversion 
 only a transitory folly. It is but recentl}?, only 
 since they were away from succor, off in the 
 desert, that she has perceived her own risk. 
 She hoped that the voyage from England would 
 disenchant her father, and that she could keep 
 him in the States. No ; he was committed ; he 
 was impracticable. You have seen yourself how 
 far his faith is shaken. Just so far that his 
 crazy cheerfulness has given place to moping; 
 but he will hear nothing of reason." 
 
 " What does she anticipate ? " 
 
 " She says she only dares to endure. Day by 
 day they both wear away. Day by day her 
 father's bright hope dwindles away. Day by day 
 she perceives the moment of her own danger 
 approaching. She could not speak to me of it ; 
 but I could feel by her tone her disgust and dis- 
 dain of Sizzum. 0, how steady and noble she 
 is ! All for her father ! All to guide him with 
 the fewest pangs to that desolate death she knows 
 must come ! She gave me a few touches of their 
 past history, so that I could see how much closer 
 and tenderer than the common bond of parent 
 and child theirs had been." 
 
 " That I saw, from the old gentleman's story. 
 Sorrow and poverty ennoble love." 
 
 " She thanked me and you so sweetly for our 
 society, and the kind words we had given them.
 
 A LOVER. 175 
 
 She liad not seen her father so cheerful, so like 
 himself, since they had left England." 
 
 " What a weary pilgrimage they must have 
 had, poor errant souls ! " 
 
 " Wade, Wade ! how this tragedy of theirs 
 cures me forever of any rebellion against my 
 own destiny. A helpless woman's tragedy is so 
 much bitterer than anything that can befall a 
 man." 
 
 " Must we say helpless, John ? " 
 
 " Are we two an army, that we can take them 
 by force ? She has definitely closed any further 
 communication on our part. She said that I 
 could not have failed to notice how Elder Sizzum 
 disliked our presence. I must promise her not 
 to be seen with them in the morning. Sizzum 
 would find some means to punish her father, and 
 that would be torture to her. It seems that vil- 
 lain plays on the old man's rehgious supersti- 
 tions, and can terrify him almost to madness." 
 
 " The villain ! And yet how far back of him 
 lies the blame, that such terrors can exist in any 
 man's mind, when God is Love." 
 
 "I promised her not to see her again — for 
 you and myself; to see her no more. That 
 good-bye was final. Now let me alone for a 
 while, my dear old boy ; I am worn out and 
 heart-broken." 
 
 He mummied himself in his blankets, and lay
 
 176 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 on the grass, motionless as a dead man. It was 
 not his way to shirk camp duties. Indeed, his 
 volunteer services had left me in arrears. 
 
 I put our fire-arms in order in case of attack, 
 and extinguished our fire. Our horses, too, I 
 drove in and tethered close by. My old suspicion 
 of Murker and Larrap had revived from their 
 mutterings. I thought that, after their great 
 winnings of to-night, they would feel that they 
 could make nothing more of the mail party, and 
 might seize the chance to stampede or steal some 
 of the Mormon horses or ours. It was a capital 
 chance in the sleepy hours after the revel. Horse- 
 stealing, since the bad example of Diomed, has 
 never gone out of fashion. Fulano and Pumps 
 were great prizes. I knew that Larrap hated 
 Brent for his undisguised abhorrence and the 
 ugly words and collision of to-day. The pair 
 bore good-will to neither of us. Their brutality 
 had jarred with us from the beginning. I knew 
 ihey would take personal pleasure in serving us 
 a shabby trick out of their dixonary. On the 
 whole, I determined to watch all night. 
 
 Easy to purpose ; hard to perform. I leaned 
 agauast my saddle and thought over the day. 
 How I pitied poor Brent ! Pitied him the more 
 thoroughly, since I was hardly less a lover than 
 he. Long afterwards, long after the misery of 
 love dead in despair, comes the time when one
 
 A LOVER 177 
 
 can say, " Ich babe gelebt und geliebet"; can 
 know, " 'T is better to bave loved and lost, tban 
 never to bave loved at all." But no sucb sootb- 
 ing poetry could sing resignation to my friend 
 in bis unselfisb misery. All be could do — all 
 I could do — was to bear tbe agony of tbis sud- 
 den cruel wrong ; to curse tbe cbances of life 
 tbat bad so weakened tbe soul of our new friend 
 and so darkened bis sigbt tbat he could not know 
 trutb from falsehood. Doubly to curse tbe false- 
 hood. Before, it had only been something to 
 scorn. Here tragedy entered. Tbe mean, miser- 
 able, ludicrous invention of Mormonism, tbe fool- 
 ish fable of an idler, bad grown to be a great 
 masterly tyranny. These two souls were clutched 
 by tbis foul ogre, and locked up in an impregna- 
 ble prison. And we two were baffled. Of what 
 use was our loyalty to woman ? "What vam 
 words those unuttered words of our knightly vow 
 to succor all distressed damsels, — the vow that 
 every gentleman takes upon himself, as earnestly 
 now, and wills to keep as faithfully, as any Arte- 
 gall in tbe days gone by, when wrong took crud- 
 er and more monstrous form ! More monstrous 
 form ! Could any wrong be more detestable ! 
 Did knidit, who loved God and honored bis 
 lady, ever encounter more paynim-like horde 
 tban tbis, — the ignorant misled by tbe base? 
 7n sucb dreary protest and pity I passed an 
 
 8* L
 
 178 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 hour. The evening breeze had strengthened mtc 
 a great gusty wind, blowing from the moun- 
 tains to the southward. I drowsed a little. A 
 ])erturbed slumber overcame me. The roaring 
 night-wind aroused me at intervals with a blast 
 more furious, and I woke to perceive ominous 
 and turbulent dreams flitting from my brain, — 
 dreams of violence, tyranny, and infamous out- 
 rage. 
 
 Suddenly another sensation went creeping 
 along my nerves. I sat bolt upright. There 
 was a feeling of human presence, of stealthy ap- 
 proach coming up against the night-wind and 
 crushing its roar with a sound more penetrat- 
 ing. 
 
 Brent, too, was on the alert. 
 
 " Some one at our horses," he whispered. 
 
 We dashed forward. There was a rustle of 
 flight through the bushes. We each fired a 
 shot. The noise ceased. 
 
 " Stop ! " said my friend, as I was giving 
 chase. " We must not leave the horses. They 
 will stampede them while we are off." 
 
 " They ? perhaps it was only a cayote or a 
 wolf Why, Fulano ! old fellow ! " 
 
 Fulano trotted up, neighing, and licked my 
 hand. His lariat had been cut, — a clean cut 
 with a knife. We were only just in time. 
 
 " We must keep watch till morning," said I.
 
 A LOVER. 179 
 
 '' I have been drowsing. I will take tlie first 
 hour." 
 
 Brent, with a moan of weariness, threw him- 
 self down again on the grass. I sat watchful. 
 
 The night-wind went roaring on. It loves 
 those sweeps and surges of untenanted plain, 
 as it loves the lifts and levels of the barren 
 sea. The fitful gale rushed down as if it boiled 
 over the edge of some great hollow in the moun- 
 tains, and then stayed to gather force for an- 
 other overflow. In its pauses I could hear the 
 stir and murmur of the Mormon cattle, a thou- 
 sand and more. But once there came a larger 
 pause ; the air grew silent, as if it had never 
 known a breeze, or as if all life and motion 
 between earth and sky were utterly and for- 
 ever quelled. 
 
 In that one instant of dead stillness, when the 
 noise of the cattle was hushed, and our horses 
 ceased champing to listen, I seemed to hear the 
 clang of galloping hoofs, not far away to the 
 southward. 
 
 Galloping hoofs, surely I heard them. Or 
 was it only the charge of a fresh blast down 
 the mountain-side, uprooting ancient pines, and 
 flmging great rocks from crag to chasm? 
 
 And that strange, terrible, human, inhuman 
 sound, outringing the noise of the hoofs, and 
 making the silence a ghastly horror, — was i^ 
 a woman's scream ?
 
 180 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 No ; it could only be my fevered imagina- 
 tion, that found familiar sounds in the inar- 
 ticulate voices of the wilderness. I listened 
 long and intently. The wind sighed, and raved, 
 and threatened again. I heard the dismal howl- 
 ing of wolves far away in the darkness. 
 
 I kept a double watch of two hours, and then, 
 calling Brent to do his share, threw myself on 
 the grass and slept soundly.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AEMSTEONG. 
 
 I AWOKE in the solemn quiet dawn of tlie 
 next morning with my forebodings of ill gone, 
 and in their stead what I could not but deem 
 a baseless hopefulness for our new friends' wel- 
 fare. 
 
 Brent did not share it. His usual gay matin- 
 song was dumb. He cowered, chilled and spirit- 
 less, by our camp-fire. Breakfast was an idle 
 ceremony to both. We sat and looked at each 
 other. His despair began to infect me. This 
 would not do. 
 
 I left my friend, sitting unnerved and pur- 
 poseless, and walked to the mail-riders' camp. 
 
 Jake Shamberlain was already stirring about, 
 as merry as a grig, — and that is much to say 
 on the Plains. There are two grigs to every 
 blade of grass from Echo Cailon to the South 
 Pass, and yet every one sings and skips, as gay as 
 if merriment would make the desert a meadow, 
 
 " You are astir early after the ball, Jake," 
 said I.
 
 182 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 *' Ef I wait till tlio gals in the train begins 
 to polky round, I shan't git my men away 
 nayry time. They olluz burr to gals, like all 
 young fellers. We '11 haul off jest as soon as 
 you 're ready." 
 
 " We are ready," I said. 
 
 I made our packs, and saddled the mustangs. 
 
 " Come, Brent," said I, shaking him by the 
 shoulder, " start, old fellow ! Your ride will 
 rouse you." 
 
 He obeyed, and mounted. He was quite 
 cowed and helpless. I did not know my brave, 
 cheerful friend in this weak being. He seemed 
 to me as old and dreary as Mr. Clitheroe. Love 
 must needs have taken a very cruel clutch upon 
 his heart. Indeed, to the delicate nature of 
 such a man, love is either life of life, or a mur- 
 derous blight worse than death. 
 
 As we started, a gray dawn was passing into 
 the violet liglit just before sunrise. The gale 
 had calmed itself away. The tender hues of 
 morning glorified the blue adobes of Bridger's 
 shabby fort. It rested on the plain, still as the 
 grave, — stiller for the contrast of this silent 
 hour with last night's riot. A deathly quiet, 
 too, dwelt upon the Mormon caravan. There 
 were the white-topped wagons just growing rosy 
 with the fond colors of early day. No aban- 
 doned camp of a fled army could have looked
 
 AEMSTROXG. 183 
 
 more lonely. Half a mile from the train were 
 the cattle feeding quietly in a black mass, like 
 a herd of buffalo. There was not one man, 
 out of our own party, to be seen. 
 
 " Where are their sentinels, Jake ? " said I. 
 
 " Too much spree for good watch," says he. 
 
 " Elder Sizzum ought to look sharper." 
 
 " He 's a prime leader. But he tuk dance, 
 argee, and faro last night with a perfect loose- 
 ness. I dunno what 's come over Sizzum ; bein' 
 a great apossle 's maybe too much for him. But 
 then he knows ther ain't no Utes round here, to 
 stampede his animals or run off any of his gals. 
 Both er you men could have got you a wife 
 apiece last night, and ben twenty miles on the 
 way, and nobody the wiser. Now, boys, be alive 
 with them mules. I want to be off." 
 
 " Where are Smith and Robinson ? " I asked, 
 missing the two gamblers as we started. 
 
 " Let 'em slide, cuss 'em ! " said Jake. 
 " ' Taint my business to call 'em up, and fetch 
 'em hot water, and black their boots. They 
 moved camp away from us, over into the brush 
 by you. Reckon they was afeard some on us 
 would be goin' halves with 'em in the pile they 
 raked last night. Let 'em slide, the durn rip- 
 perbits ! Every man for hisself, I say. They 
 snaked me to the figure of a slug at their 
 cheatin' game ; an' now they may sleep till 
 they dry and turn to grasshopper pie, for me."
 
 184 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Jake cracked his long whip. The mules 
 sprang forward together. We started. 
 
 I gave one more look at the caravan we had 
 seen winding so beautifully down on the plain, 
 no longer ago than yesterday evening. Eosy 
 morning brightened on every wagon of the great 
 ellipse. Not a soul was to be seen of all their 
 tenants. I recognized Mr. Clitheroe's habitation 
 at the farther end. That, too, had the same 
 mysterious, deserted air, as if the sad pair v/ho 
 dwelt in it had desperately wandered away into 
 the desert by night. 
 
 Brent would not turn. He kept his haggard 
 face bent eastward, toward the horizon, where an 
 angry sunrise began to thrust out the quiet hues 
 of dawn. 
 
 I followed the train, doggedly refusing to 
 think more of those desolate friends we were 
 leaving. Their helpless fate made all the beauty 
 of the scene only crueller bitterness. What 
 right had dawn to tinge with sweetest violet and 
 with hopeful rose the shelters of that camp of 
 delusion and folly ! 
 
 We rode steadily on through the cool haze, 
 and then through the warm, sunny haze, of that 
 October morning. Brent hardly uttered a word. 
 He left me the whole task of driving our horses. 
 A difficult task this morning. Their rest and 
 feast of yesterday had put Pumps and Fulano in
 
 ARMSTRONG. 18A 
 
 high epirits. I had my hands full to keep them 
 in the track. 
 
 "We had ridden some eighteen miles, when 
 Brent fell back out of the dust of our march, 
 and beckoned me. 
 
 " Dick," sMd he, "I have had enough of this." 
 
 He grew more like himself as he spoke. 
 
 " I was crushed and cowardly last night and 
 this morning," he continued. " For the first 
 time in my life, my hope and judgment failed me 
 together. You must despise me for giving up 
 and quitting Miss Clitheroe." 
 
 " My dear boy," said I, " we were partners in 
 our despair." 
 
 " Mine is gone. I have made up my mind. I 
 will not leave her. I will ride on with you to 
 the South Pass. That will give the caravan a 
 start, so that I can follow unobserved. Then I 
 will follow, and let her know in some way that 
 she has a friend within call. She must be saved, 
 sooner or later, whether she will or no. Love or 
 no love, such a woman shall not be left to will 
 herself dead, rather than fall into the hands of a 
 beast like Sizzum. I have no mission, you 
 know," and he smiled drearily ; " I make one 
 now. I cannot fight the good fight against vil- 
 lany and brutishness anywhere better than here. 
 When I get into the valley, I will camp down at 
 Jake's. I can keep my courage up hunting
 
 186 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 grizzly s until she wants me. Perhaps I may 
 find Biddulph there still. What do you say, old 
 fellow? I am bound to you for the journey. 
 Will you forgive me for leaving you?" 
 
 " You will find it hard work to leave me. 
 I go with you and stand by you in this cause, 
 life or death." 
 
 " My dear friend ! my brother ! " 
 
 We took hands on this. 
 
 Our close friendship passed into completed 
 brotherhood. Doubts and scruples vanished. 
 We gave ourselves to our knight-errantry. 
 
 " We will save her, John," said I. " She is 
 my sister from this moment." 
 
 His face lighted up with the beauty of his boy- 
 ish days. He straightened himself in his saddle, 
 gave his fair moustache a twirl, and hummed, 
 for gayety of heart, " Ah non giunge ! " to the 
 beat of his mustang's hoofs. 
 
 We were riding at the bottom of a little 
 hollow. The dusty trail across the unfenced 
 wilderness, worn smooth and broad as a turn- 
 pike by the march of myriad caravans, climbed 
 up the slopes before and behind us, like the 
 wake of a ship between surges. The mail train 
 had disappeared over the ridge. Our horses 
 had gone with it. Brent and I were alone, 
 as if the world hel(? no other tenants. 
 
 Suddenly we heard the rush of a horseman 
 after us.
 
 ARMSTRONG. 187 
 
 Before we could turn lie was down the hil- 
 lock, — he was at our side. 
 
 He pulled his horse hard upon his haunches 
 and glared at us. A fierce look it was ; yet 
 a bewildered look, as of one suddenly cheated 
 of a revenge he had laid finger on. 
 
 He glared at us, we gazed at him, an instant, 
 without a word. 
 
 A ghastly pair — this apparition — horse and 
 man ! The horse was a tall, gaunt white. There 
 were the deep hollows of age over his blood- 
 phot eyes. His outstretched head showed that 
 he shared his master's eagerness of pursuit. 
 Peath would have chosen such a steed for a 
 gallop on one of death's errands. 
 
 Death would have commissioned such a rider 
 to bear a sentence of death. A tall, gaunt man, 
 with the loose, long frame of a pioneer. But 
 the brown vigor of a pioneer was gone from 
 him. His face was lean and bloodless. It was 
 clear where some of his blood had found issue. 
 A strip of old white blanket, soiled with dust 
 and blood, was turbaned askew about his head^ 
 and under it there showed the ugly edges of 
 a recent wound. 
 
 When he pulled up beside us, his stringy 
 right hand was ready upon the butt of a re- 
 volver. He dropped the muzzle as he looked 
 at us.
 
 188 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 For what hoiTor was this man the embodied 
 Nemesis ! 
 
 " Where are they ? " 
 
 He whispered this question in a voice thick 
 with stern purpose, and shuddering with some 
 recollection that inspired the purpose. 
 
 "They! who?" 
 
 " The two murderers." 
 
 " They stayed behind at Bridger." 
 
 " No. The Mormons told me they were here. 
 Don't hide them! Their time is come." 
 
 Still in the same curdling whisper. He 
 crvished his voice, as if he feared the very hil- 
 locks of the prairie would reverberate his words, 
 and earth would utter a warning cry to those 
 he hunted to fly, fly, for the avenger of blood 
 was at hand. 
 
 No need to be told whom he sought. The 
 two gamblers — the two murderers — the brutes 
 we had suspected ; but where were they ? Where 
 to be sought? 
 
 We hailed the mail train. It was but a 
 hundred yards before us over the ridge. Jake 
 Shamberlain and his party returned to learn 
 what delayed us. 
 
 The haggard horsemen stared at them all, in 
 silence. 
 
 " I 've seen you before, stranger," said Sham- 
 berlain.
 
 ARMSTRONG. 189 
 
 " Yes," said the man, in his shuddering 
 whisper. 
 
 " It 's Armstrong from Oregon, from the Ump- 
 qiia, aint it? You don't look as if you were 
 after cattle this time. Where 's your brother ? " 
 
 " Murdered." 
 
 " I allowed something had happened, because 
 he warnt along. I never seed two men stick 
 so close as you and he did. They didn't kill 
 him without gettin' a lick at you, I see. Who 
 was it ? Lidians ? " 
 
 " Worse." 
 
 " I reckon I know why you 're after us, then." 
 
 " I can't waste time, Shamberlain," said Arm- 
 strong, in a hurried whisper. " I'll tell you in 
 two words what's happened to me, and p'r'aps 
 you can help me to find the men I mean to 
 find." 
 
 " I'll help you, if I know how, Armstrong. I 
 haint seen no two in my life, old country or new 
 country, saints or gentiles, as I 'd do more for 'n 
 you and your brother. I 've olluz said, ef the 
 world was chock full of Armstrongs, Paradise 
 would n't pay, and Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob 
 mout just as well blow out their candle and go 
 under a bushel-basket, unless a half-bushel would 
 kiver 'em." 
 
 The stranger seemed insensible to this compli- 
 ment. He went on in the same whisper, full of
 
 190 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 agony, pain, and weariness. While he talked, 
 his panting horse drew up his lip and whinnied, 
 showing his long, yellow teeth. The spirit of his 
 rider had entered him. He was impatient of 
 this dalliance. 
 
 " We were coming down from the Umpqua, 
 my brother and I," says Armstrong, " goan 
 across to the States, to drive out cattle next 
 summer. We was a little late one morning, 
 along of our horses havin' strayed off froni 
 camp, and that was how we met them men. 
 Two on 'em ther' was, — a tall, most ungodly 
 Pike, and a little fat, mean-lookin' runt. We 
 lighted on 'em jest to the crossin' of Bear River. 
 They was comin' from Sacramenter, they said. 
 I kinder allowed they was horse-thieves, and 
 wanted to shy off. But Bill — that was my 
 brother " 
 
 Here the poor fellow choked a little. 
 
 " Bill, he never could n't think wrong of no- 
 body. Bill, he said, ' No. Looks was nothin',' he 
 said, ' and we 'd jine the fellers.' So we did, 
 and rode together all day, and camped together 
 on a branch we cum to. I reckon we talked too 
 much about the cattle we was goan to buy, and 
 I suppose ther' aint many on the Pacific side 
 that aint heard of the Armstrongs. They al- 
 lowed we had money, — them murderers did. 
 Well, we camped all right, and went to sleep,
 
 AEMSTKONG. 191 
 
 and i never knowed nothin', ef it warnt a dream 
 that a grizzly had wiped me over the head, till 1 
 woke up the next day with the sun brilin' down 
 on my head, and my head all raw and bloody, as 
 ef I 'd been scalped. And there was Bill — my 
 brother Bill — lyin' dead in his blankets." 
 
 A shudder passed through our group. These 
 were the men we had tolerated, sat with at the 
 camp-fire, to whose rough stories and foul jokes 
 we had listened. Brent's instinct was true, 
 
 Armstrong was evidently an honest, simple, 
 kindly fellow. His eyes were pure, gentle blue. 
 They filled with tears as he spoke. But the 
 stern look remained, the Rhadamanthine whisper 
 only grew thicker with vengeance. 
 
 " Bill was dead," he continued. " The hatchet 
 slipped when they come to hit me, and they was 
 too skeared, I suppose, to go on choppin' me, as 
 they had him. P'r'aps his ghost cum round and 
 told 'em 't warnt the fair thing they 'd ben at, 
 and 't warnt. But they got our horses. Bill's big 
 sorrel and my Flathead horse, what 's made a 
 hunderd and twenty-three miles betwixt sunrise 
 and sunset of a September day, goan for the doc- 
 tor, when Ma Armstrong was tuk to die. They 
 got the horses, and our money belts. So wher». 
 I found Bill was dead, I knowed what my lif& 
 was left me for. I tied up my head, and some- 
 how 1 crep, and walked, and run, and got to Box
 
 192 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 Elder. I don't know how long it took, nor who 
 showed me the way ; but I got there." 
 
 Box Elder is the northernmost Mormon settle- 
 ment, or was, in those days. 
 
 " I'll never say another word agin the Mormon 
 religion, Jake," Armstrong went on. " They 
 treated me like a brother to Box Elder. They 
 outfitted me with a pistol, and this ere horse. 
 They said he 'd come in from a train what the 
 Indians had cut off, and was a terrible one to go. 
 He is ; and I believe he knows what he 's goan 
 for. I 've ben night and day ridin' on them 
 murderers' trail. Now, men, give me time to 
 think. Bill's murderers aint at Bridger. They 
 was there last midnight. They must be some- 
 wheres within fifty miles, and I '11 find 'em, so 
 help me God ! " 
 
 His hoarse whisper was still. No one spoke. 
 
 Another rush of hoofs down the slope behind !
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 CAITIFF BAFFLES OGRE. 
 
 Another rush of horses' feet behind us. 
 
 What ? 
 
 Elder Sizzum ! 
 
 And that pale, gray shadow of a man, whose 
 pony the Elder drags by the bridle, and lashes 
 cruelly forward, — who ? 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe. 
 
 Sizzum rode straight up to Brent. 
 
 The two men faced each other, — the big, 
 hulking, bullying saint ; the slight, graceful, self- 
 possessed gentile. Sizzum quailed a little when 
 he saw the other did not quail. He seemed to 
 change his intended form of address. 
 
 " Brother Clitheroe wants his daughter," said 
 Sizzum. 
 
 " Yes, yes, gentlemen," said Mr. CUtheroe in 
 feeble echo, " I want my daughter." 
 
 Brent ignored the Mormon. He turned to 
 the father, and questioned eagerly. 
 
 " What is this, dear sir ? Is Miss Ellen miss- 
 ing ? She is not here. Speak, sir! TeU us 
 g M
 
 194 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 at once how she was lost. We must be o:^ 
 her track instantly. Wade, shift the saddles 
 to Fulano and Pumps, while I make up our 
 packs. Speak, sir ! Speak ! " 
 
 Brent's manner carried conviction, even to 
 Sizzum. 
 
 " I did not like to suspect you, gentlemen," 
 said Mr. Clitheroe, " after our pleasant evening 
 and your kindness ; but Brother Sizzum said it 
 could not be any one else." 
 
 " Get the facts. Wade," said Brent, " I can- 
 not trust myself to ask." 
 
 Sizzum smiled a base, triumphant smile over 
 the agony of my friend. 
 
 " Tell us quick," said I, taking Mr. Clitheroe 
 firmly by the arm, and fixing his eye. 
 
 " In the night, an hour or more after you 
 left us, I was waked up by two men creeping 
 into the wagon. They whispered they would 
 shoot, if I breathed. They passed behind the 
 curtain. My daughter liad sunk on the floor, 
 tired out, poor child ! without undressing. They 
 threw a blanket over her head, and stifled her 
 so tliat she could not utter a sound. They 
 tied me and gagged me. Then they dragged 
 her off. God forgive me, gentlemen, for sus- 
 pecting you of such brutality ! I lay in the 
 wagon almost strangled to death until the team^ 
 ster came to put to the oxen for our journey. 
 That is all I know."
 
 CAITIFF BAFFLES OGEE. 195 
 
 " The two gamblers, murderers, have carried 
 her off," said I ; " but we '11 save her yet, please 
 God ! " 
 
 " 0," said Sizzum, " ef them devils has got 
 her, that 's the end of her. I haint got no 
 more interest in her case. I believe I '11 go. 
 I 've wasted too much time now from the Lord's 
 business." 
 
 He moved to go. 
 
 " What am I to do ? " said Mr. Clitheroe. 
 
 Forlorn, bereaved, perplexed old man ! Any 
 but a brute would have hesitated to strike him 
 another blow. Sizzum did not hesitate. 
 
 " You may go to the devil across lots, on 
 that runt pony of yourn, with your new friends, 
 for all I care. I 've had enough of your daugh- 
 ter's airs, as if she was too good to be teched 
 by one of the Lord's chosen. But she '11 get 
 the Lord's vengeance now, because she would n't 
 see what was her place and privileges. And 
 you 're no better than a backslider. You 've 
 been grumblin' and settin' yourself up for some- 
 body. I would cuss you now with the wrath 
 to come if such a poor-spirited granny was wuth 
 cussin'." 
 
 The base wretch lashed his horse and gal- 
 loped off. 
 
 Even his own "people of the mail party looked 
 and muttered contempt.
 
 196 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe seemed utterly stunned. Guide, 
 Faith, Daugliter, all gone ! Wliat was lie to do, 
 indeed ! 
 
 " Never mind, Mr. Clitheroe," said Brent, ten- 
 derly, " I hope you have not lost a daughter. 
 I know you have gained a son, — yes, two of 
 them. Here, Jake Shamberlain ! " 
 
 " Here, sir ! Up to time ! Ready to pull my 
 pound ! " 
 
 " "Wade and I are going after the lady. Do 
 you take this gentleman, and deliver him safe 
 and sound to Captain Ruby at Fort Laramie. 
 Tell Ruby to keep him till we come, and treat 
 him as he would General Scott. Drive our 
 mules and the mustangs to Laramie, and leave 
 them there. We trust the whole to you. There 's 
 no time to talk. Tell me what money you want 
 for the work, and I '11 pay you now in ad- 
 vance, whatever you ask." 
 
 " I '11 be switched round creation ef you do. 
 Not the first red ! You. think, bekase I 'm a 
 Mormon, as you call it, I haint got no nat'ral 
 feelin's. Why, boys, I 'd go with you myself 
 after the gal, and let Uncle Sam's mail lie there 
 and wait till every letter answered itself, ef I 
 had a kettrypid what could range with yourn. 
 No, no, Jake Shamberlain aint a hog, and his 
 mail boys aint of the pork kind. I '11 take keer 
 of the old gentleman, and put him through jest
 
 CAITIFF BAFFLES OGRE. 197 
 
 'z if lie was my own father, and wuth a million 
 slugs. And ef that aint talkin' fair, I dunno 
 what is." 
 
 We both griped Jake Shamberlain's friendly- 
 fist. 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe, weary with his morning's ride, 
 faint and sick after his bonds of the night, and 
 now crushed in spirit and utterly bewildered 
 with these sudden changes, was handed over to 
 his new protector. 
 
 The emancipating force had found him. He 
 was free of his Mormonism. His delusion had 
 discarded him. A rough and cruel termination 
 of his hopes ! How would he bear this disap- 
 pointment ? Would his heart break ? Would 
 his mind break ? his life break ? 
 
 We could not check ourselves to think of 
 him. Our thoughts were galloping furiously on 
 in succor of the daughter, fallen on an evil 
 fate. 
 
 While this hasty talk had been going on, I had 
 shifted our saddles to Pumps and Fulano. . Noble 
 fellows ! they took in the calm excitement of my 
 mood. They grew eager as a greyhound when 
 he sees the hare break cover. They divined that 
 THEiB MOMENT HAD COME ! Now their forcc was 
 to be pitted against brutality. Horse against 
 brute, — which would win? I dared ?v<>t think 
 of the purpose of our going. Only, V-'^pioiia !
 
 198 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Begone ! was ringing in my ears, and a figure 
 I dared not see was before my eyes. 
 
 I was frenzied with excitement; but I held 
 myself steady as one holds his rifle when a buck 
 comes leaping out of the forest into the prairie, 
 where rifle and man have been waiting and trem- 
 bling, while the hounds' bay came nearer, nearer. 
 I drew strap and tied knot of our girths, and 
 doubled the knot. There must be no chafing of 
 saddles, no dismountmg to girth up. That was 
 to be a gallop, I knew, where a man who fell to 
 the rear would be too late for the fight. 
 
 Brent, meantime, had rolled up a little stock 
 of provisions in each man's double blanket. We 
 were going we knew not how far. We must be 
 ready for work of many days. A moment's 
 calmness over our preparations now might save 
 desolate defeat or death hereafter. We lashed 
 our blankets with their contents on firmly by 
 the buckskin thongs which are attached to the 
 cantle of a California saddle, — the only saddle 
 for such work as we — horses and men — have 
 on the plains. 
 
 " Rifles ? " said I. 
 
 "No. Knives and six-shooters are enough," 
 said Brent, as cool as if our ride were an orna- 
 mental promenade d cheval. " We cannot carry 
 weight or clumsy weapons on this journey." 
 
 We mounted and were off, with a cheer from 
 Jake Shamberlain and his boys.
 
 CAITIFt BAFFLES OGRE. 199 
 
 All this time, we had not noticed Armstrong. 
 As we struck off southward upon the trackless 
 prairie, that ghastly figure upon the gaunt white 
 horse was beside us. 
 
 " We 're bound on the same arrant," whis- 
 pered he. " Only the savin 's yourn and the 
 killin 's mine." 
 
 Did my hope awake, now that the lady I had 
 chosen for my sister was snatched from that 
 monstrous ogre of Mormonism ? 
 
 Yes ; for now instant, urgent action was pos- 
 sible. We could do something. Gallop, gallop, 
 — that we could do. 
 
 God speed us ! — and the caitiffs should only 
 have baffled the ogre, and the lady should be 
 saved. 
 
 K not saved, avenged !
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 A GALLOP OF THREE. 
 
 We were off, we Three on our Gallop to save 
 and to slay. 
 
 Pumps and Fulano took fire at once. They 
 were ready to burst into then- top speed, and go 
 off in a frenzy. 
 
 " Steady, steady," cried Brent. " Now we '11 
 keep this long easy lope for a while, and I '11 tell 
 you my plan. 
 
 " They have gone to the southward, — those 
 two men. They could not get away in any other 
 direction. I have heard Murker say he knows 
 all the country between here and the Arkansaw. 
 Thank Heaven ! so do I, foot by foot." 
 
 I recalled the sound of galloping hoofs I had 
 heard in the night to the southward. 
 
 " I heard them, then," said I, " in my watch 
 after Fulano's lariat was cut. The wind lulled, 
 and there came a sound of horses, and another 
 sound, which I then thought a fevered fancy of 
 my own, a far-away scream of a woman." 
 
 Brent had been quite unimpassioned in his
 
 A GALLOP OF THREE. 201 
 
 manner until now. He groaned, as I spoke of 
 the scream. 
 
 " Wade ! Richard ! " he said, " why did 
 you not know the voice ? It was she. They 
 have terrible hours the start." 
 
 He was silent a moment, looking sternly for- 
 ward. Then he began again, and as he spoke, his 
 iron gray edged on with a looser rein. 
 
 " It is well you heard them ; it makes their 
 course unmistakable. We know we are on thei? 
 track. Seven or eight full hours ! It is long 
 odds of a start. But they are not mounted as 
 we are mounted. They did not ride as we shall 
 ride. They had a woman to carry, and their 
 mules to drive. They will fear pursuit, and push 
 on without stopping. But we shall catch them ; 
 we shall catch them before night, so help us 
 God!" 
 
 "You are aiming for the mountains?" I 
 asked. 
 
 " For Luggernel Alley," he said. 
 
 I remembered how, in our very first interview, 
 a thousand miles away at the Fulano mine, he 
 had spoken of tliis spot. All the conversation 
 then, all the talk about my horse, came back to 
 me like a Delphic prophecy suddenly fulfilled. 
 I made a good omen of this remembrance. 
 
 " For Luggernel Alley," said Brent. " Do 
 you recollect my pointing out a notch in the 
 
 9*
 
 202 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Sierra, yesterday, when I said I would like to 
 spend a honeymoon there, if I could find a 
 woman brave enough for this plains' life ? " 
 
 He grew very white as he spoke, and again 
 Pumps led off by a neck, we ranging up in- 
 stantly. 
 
 "They will make for the Luggernel Springs. 
 The Alley is the only gate through the moun- 
 tains towards the Arkansaw. If they can get 
 by there, they are safe. They can strike off 
 New Mexico way ; or keep on to the States out 
 of the line of emigration or any Mormon pursuit. 
 The Springs arc the only water to be had at this 
 season, without digging, anywhere in that quar- 
 ter. They must go there. We are no farther 
 from the spot than we were at Bridger. We 
 have been travelling along the base of the tri- 
 angle. We have only lost time. And, now that 
 we are fairly under way, I think we might shake 
 out another reef. A little faster, friends, — a 
 little faster yet ! " 
 
 It was a vast desert level where we were 
 riding. Here and there a scanty tuft of grass 
 appeared, to prove that Nature had tried her 
 benign experiment, and wafted seeds hither to 
 let the scene be verdant, if it would. Nature 
 had failed. The land refused any mantle over 
 its brown desolation. The soil was disintegrated, 
 igneous rock, fine and well beaten down as the 
 most thoroughly laid Macadam.
 
 A GALLOP OF THREE. 203 
 
 Behind was the rolling region where the Great 
 Trail passes ; before and far away, the faint blue 
 of the Sierra. Not a bird sang in the hot noon ; 
 not a cricket chirped. No sound except the beat 
 of our horses' hoofs on the pavement. We rode 
 side by side, taking our strides together. It was 
 a waiting race. The horses travelled easily. 
 They learned, as a horse with a self-possessed 
 rider will, that they were not to waste strength 
 in rushes. " Spend, but waste not," — not a step, 
 not a breath, in that gallop for life ! Tliis must 
 be our motto. 
 
 We three rode abreast over the sere brown 
 plain on our gallop to save and to slay. 
 
 Far — ah, how terribly dim and distant ! — was 
 the Sierra, a slowly lifting cloud. Slowly, slowly 
 they lifted, those gracious heights, while we sped 
 over the harsh levels of the desert. Harsh lev- 
 els, abandoned or unvisited by verdancy. But 
 better so ; there was no long herbage to check 
 our great pace over the smooth race-course ; no 
 thickets here to baffle us ; no forests to mislead. 
 
 We galloped abreast, — Armstrong at the right. 
 His weird, gaunt white held his own with the 
 best of us. No whip, no spur, for that deathly 
 creature. He went as if his master's purpose 
 were stirring him through and through. That 
 stern intent made his sinews steel, and put an 
 agony of power into every stride. The man never
 
 204 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 stirred, save sometimes to put a hand to tlial 
 bloody blanket bandage across his head and tem- 
 ple. He had told his story, he had spoken his 
 errand, lie breathed not a word ; but with his 
 lean, pallid face set hard, his gentle blue eyes 
 scourged of their kindliness, and fixed upon those 
 distant mountains where his vengeance lay, he 
 rode on like a relentless fate. 
 
 Next in the line I galloped. my glorious 
 black ! The great, killing pace seemed mere 
 playful canter to him, — such as one might ride 
 beside a timid girl, thrilling with her first free 
 dash over a flowery common, or a golden beach 
 between sea and shore. But from time to time 
 he surged a little forward with his great shoul- 
 ders, and gave a mighty writhe of his body, while 
 his hind legs came lifting his flanks under me, and 
 telling of the giant reserve of speed and power 
 he kept easily controlled. Then his ear would 
 go back, and his large brown eye, with its purple- 
 black pupil, would look round at my bridle hand 
 and then into my eye, saying as well as words 
 could have said it, " This is mere sport, my 
 friend and master. You do not know me. I 
 have stuff in me that you do not dream. Say 
 the word, and I can double this, treble it. Say 
 the word ! let me show you how I can spurn the 
 earth." Then, with the lightest love pressure 
 on the snaffle, I would say, " Not yet ! not yet !
 
 A GALLOP OF THREE. 20-5 
 
 Patieuce, my noble friend ! Your time will 
 come." 
 
 At the left rode Brent, our leader. He knew 
 the region ; he made the plan ; he had the hope ; 
 his was the ruling passion, — stronger than broth- 
 erhood, than revenge. Love made him leader 
 of that galloping three. His iron-gray went 
 grandly, with white mane flapping the air like 
 a signal-flag of reprieve. Eager hope and kin- 
 dling purpose made the rider's face more beau- 
 tiful than ever. He seemed to behold Sidney's 
 motto written on the golden haze before him, 
 " Viam aut inveniam aut faciam.''^ I felt my 
 heart grow great, when I looked at his calm fea- 
 tures, and caught his assuring smile, — a gay 
 smile but for the dark, fateful resolve beneath it. 
 And when he launched some stirrins; word of 
 cheer, and shook another ten of seconds out of 
 the gray's mile, even Armstrong's countenance 
 grew less deathly, as he turned to our leader in 
 silent response. Brent looked a fit chieftain for 
 such a wild charge over the desert waste, with 
 his buckskin hunting-shirt and leggins with flar- 
 ing fringes, his otter cap and eagle's plume, his 
 bronzed face, with its close, brown beard, his 
 elate head, and his seat like a centaur. 
 
 So we galloped three abreast, neck and neck, 
 hoof with hoof, steadily quickening our pace over 
 tlie sere width of desert. We must make the
 
 206 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 most of the levels. Rougher work, cruel obsta- 
 cles were before. All the wild, triumphant mu- 
 sic I had ever heard came aud sang in mj ears 
 to the flinging cadence of the resonant feet, 
 tramping on hollow arches of the volcanic rock, 
 over great, vacant chasms underneath. Sweet 
 and soft around us melted the hazy air of Octo- 
 ber, and its warm, flickering currents shook like 
 a veil of gauzy gold, between us and the blue 
 bloom of the mountains far away, but nearing 
 now and lifting step by step. 
 
 On we galloped, the avenger, the fiiend, the 
 lover, on our errand, to save and to slay.
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 FASTER. 
 
 It came afternoon, as we rode on steadily. 
 The country grew rougher. The horses never 
 flinched, but they sweated freely, and foam from 
 their nostrils flecked their shoulders. By and by, 
 with little pleasant admonitory puffs, a breeze 
 drew down from the glimmering frosty edges of 
 the Sierra and cooled us. Horses and men were 
 cheered and freshened, and lifted anew to their 
 work. 
 
 We had seen and heard no life on the desert. 
 Now in the broken country, a cayote or two scut- 
 tled away as we passed. Sometimes a lean gray 
 wolf would skulk out of a brake, canter after us 
 a little way, and then squat on his haunches, 
 staring at our strange speed. Flight and chase 
 he could understand, but ours was not flight for 
 safety, or chase for food. Men are queer mys- 
 teries to beasts. So our next companions found. 
 Over the edge of a slope, bending away to a val- 
 ley of dry scanty pasture at the left, a herd of 
 antelopes appeared. They were close to us,
 
 k 
 
 208 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 within easy revolver shot. They sprang into 
 graceful flight, some score of them, with tails up 
 and black hoofs glancing. Presently, pausing for 
 curiosity, they saw that we fled, 73 ot followed, and 
 they in turn became pursuers, careering after us 
 for a mile or more, until our stern business left 
 their gambolling play far behind. 
 
 We held steadily for that notch in the blue 
 Sierra. The mountain lines grew sharper ; the 
 country where we travelled, rougher, every stride. 
 We came upon a wide tract covered with wild- 
 sage bushes. These delayed and baffled us. It 
 was a pigmy forest of trees, mature and complete, 
 but no higher than the knee. Every dwarfed, 
 stunted, gnarled bush, had the trunk, limbs, twigs, 
 and gray, withered foliage, all in miniature, of 
 some tree, hapless but sturdy, that has had a 
 weatherbeaten struggle for life on a storm-threshed 
 crag by the shore, or on a granite side of a moun- 
 tain, with short allowance of soil to eat and water 
 to drink. Myriads of square miles of that arid 
 region have no important vegetation except this 
 wild-sage, or Artemisia, and a meaner brother, not 
 even good to burn, the greasewood. 
 
 One may ride through the tearing thickets of 
 a forest primeval, as one may shoulder through 
 a crowd of civilized barbarians at a spectacle. 
 Our gallop over the top of this pigmy wood was 
 as difficult as to find passage over the heads of
 
 FASTEK. 209 
 
 the same crowd, tall men and short, men hatted 
 with slouched hats, wash-bowls, and stove-pipes. 
 It was a rough scramble. It checked our speed 
 and chafed our horses. Sometimes we could 
 find natural pathways for a few rods. Then 
 these strayed aside or closed up, and we must 
 p'unge straight on. We lost time ; moments 
 we lost, more precious than if every one were 
 marked by a drop in a clepsydra, and each drop 
 as it fell changed itself and tinkled in the basin, 
 r priceless pearl. 
 
 " It worries me, this delay," I said to Brent. 
 
 " They lost as much — more time than we," he 
 said. 
 
 And he crowded on, more desperately, as a 
 man rides for dearer than life, — as a lover rides 
 for love. 
 
 We tore along, breaking through and over the 
 sage-bushes, each man where best he could. 
 Fulano began to show me what leaps were in 
 him. I gave him his head. No bridle would 
 have held him. I kept my mastery by the voice, 
 or rather by the perfect identification of his 
 will with mine. Our minds acted together. 
 " Save strength," I still warned him, " save 
 strength, my friend, for the moimtains and the 
 last leaps!" 
 
 A little pathway in the sage-bushes suddenly 
 opened before me, as a lane rifts in the press 
 
 N
 
 210 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 of hurrying legions 'mid the crush of a city thor 
 oughfare. I dashed on a hundred yards in ad- 
 vance of my comrades. 
 
 What was this ? The bushes trampled and 
 broken down, just as we in our passage were 
 trampling and breaking them. What ? 
 
 Hoof-marks in the dust ! 
 
 " The trail ! " I cried, " the trail ! " 
 
 They sprang toward me. Brent followed the 
 line with his eye. He galloped forward, with a 
 look of triumph. 
 
 Suddenly I saw him fling himself half out of 
 his saddle, and clutch at some object. Still going 
 at speed, and holding on by one leg alone, after 
 the Indian fashion for sport or shelter against 
 an arrow or a shot, he picked up something 
 from the bushes, regained his seat, and waved 
 his treasure to us. We ranged up and rode 
 beside him over a gap in the sage. 
 
 A lady's glove ! — that was what he had 
 stooped to recover. An old buckskin riding 
 gauntlet, neatly stitched about the wrist, and 
 pinked on the wristlet. A pretty glove, strange- 
 ly, almost tragically, feminine in this desolation. 
 A well-worn glove, that had seen better days, 
 like its mistress, but never auy day so good as 
 this, when it proved to us that we were . on the 
 sure path of rescue. 
 
 " I take up the gauntlet," said Brent. '■" Gare 
 a qui le touche ! "
 
 FASTER. 211 
 
 We said notliing more ; for this unconscious 
 token, this silent cry for help, made the danger 
 seem more closely imminent. We pressed on. 
 No flincliing in any of the horses. Where we 
 could, we were going at speed. Where they 
 could, the horses kept side by side, nerving each 
 other. Companionship sustained them in that 
 terrible ride. 
 
 And now in front the purple Sierra was grow- 
 ing brown, and rising up a distinct wall, cleft 
 visibly with dell, gully, ravine, and canon. The 
 saw-teeth of the ridge defined themselves sharply 
 into peak and pinnacle. Broad fields of cool 
 snow gleamed upon the summits. 
 
 We were ascending now all the time into 
 subalpine regions. We crossed great sloping 
 savannas, deep in dry, rustling grass, where a 
 nation of cattle might pasture. We plunged 
 through broad wastes of hot sand. We flung 
 ourselves down and up the red sides of water- 
 worn gullies. We took breakneck leaps across 
 dry quebradas in the clay. We clattered across 
 stony arroyos, longing thirstily for the gush of 
 water that had flowed there not many months 
 before. 
 
 The trail was everywhere plain. No prairie 
 craft was needed to trace it. Here the chase had 
 gone, but a few hours ago ; here, across grassy 
 slopes, trampling the grass as if a mower had
 
 212 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 passed that way ; here, ploughing wearily through 
 the sand; here, treading the red, crumbling clay ; 
 here, breaking down the side of a bank ; here, 
 leaving a sharp hoof-track in the dry mud of a 
 fled torrent. Everywhere a straight path, point- 
 ing for that deepening gap in the Sierra, Lug- 
 gernel Alley, the only gate of escape. 
 
 Brent's unerring judgment had divined the 
 course aright. On he led, charging along the 
 trail, as if he were trampling already on the car- 
 casses of the pursued. On he led and we fol- 
 lowed, drawing nearer, nearer to our goal. 
 
 Our horses suffered bitterly for water. Some 
 five hours we had ridden without a pause. Not 
 one drop or sign of water in all that arid waste. 
 The torrents had poured along the dry water- 
 courses too hastily to let the scanty alders and 
 willows along their line treasure up any sap 
 of growth. The wild-sage bushes had plamly 
 never tasted fluid more plenteous than seldom 
 dewdrops doled out on certain rare festal days, 
 enough to keep their meagre foliage a dusty 
 gray. No pleasant streamlet lurked anywhere 
 under the long dry grass of the savannas. 
 The arroyos were parched and hot as rifts in 
 lava. 
 
 It became agonizing to listen to the panting 
 and gasping of our horses. Their eyes grew 
 staring and bloodshot. We suffered, ourselves,
 
 FASTEK. 213 
 
 hardly less than they. It was cruel to press on. 
 But we must hinder a crueller cruelty. Love 
 agamst Time, — Vengeance against Time ! "We 
 must not flinch for any weak humanity to the 
 noble allies that struggled on with us, without 
 one token of resistance. 
 
 Fulano suffered least. He turned his brave 
 eye back, and beckoned me with his ear to listen, 
 while he seemed to say : " See, this is my En- 
 durance ! I hold my Power ready still to show." 
 
 And he curved his proud neck, shook his mane 
 like a banner, and galloped the grandest of all. 
 
 We came to a broad strip of sand, the dry bed 
 of a mountain-torrent. The trail followed up 
 this disappointing path. Heavy ploughing for 
 the tired horses ! How would they bear the 
 rough work down the ravine yet to come ? 
 
 Suddenly our leader pulled up and sprang 
 from the saddle. 
 
 " Look ! " he cried, " how those fellows spent 
 their time, and saved ours. Thank Heaven for 
 this ! We shall save her, surely, now." 
 
 It was WATER ! No need to go back to Pindar 
 to know that it was " the Best." 
 
 They had dug a pit deep in the thirsty sand, 
 and found a lurking river buried there. Nature 
 never questioned what manner of men they were 
 that sought. Murderers flying from vengeance 
 and planning now another villain outrage, — still
 
 214 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 impartial Nature did not change her laws for 
 them. Sunshine, air, water, life, — these boons 
 of hers, — she gave them freely. That higher 
 boon of death, if they were to receive, it must 
 be.from some other power, greater than the un- 
 discriminating force of Nature. 
 
 Good luck and good omen, this well of water 
 in the sand ! It proved that our chase had 
 suffered as we, and had been delayed as we. 
 Before they had dared to pause and waste price- 
 less moments here, their horses must have been 
 drooping terribly. The pi1»was nearly five feet 
 deep. A good hour's work, and no less, had 
 dug it with such tools as they could bring. 
 I almost laughed to think of the two, slowly 
 bailing out the sliding sand with a tin plate, 
 perhaps, and a frying-pan, while a score of miles 
 away upon the desert we three were riding hard 
 upon their tracks to follow them the fleeter for 
 this refreshment they had left. " Sic vos non 
 vobis ! " I was ready to say triumphantly ; but 
 then I remembered the third figure in their 
 group, — a woman, like a Sibyl, growing calmer 
 as her peril grew, and succor seemed to with- 
 draw. And the pang of this picture crushed 
 back into my heart any thoughts but a mad 
 anxiety and a frenzy to be driving on. 
 
 We drank thankfully of this well by the way- 
 side. No gentle beauty hereabouts to enchant
 
 FASTER. 21 5 
 
 US to delay. No grand old tree, the shelter and 
 the landmark of the fountain, proclaimuig an 
 oasis near. Nothing but bare, hot sand. But 
 the water was pure, cool, and bright. It had 
 come underground from the Sierra, and still re- 
 membered its parent snows. We drank and 
 were grateful, almost to the point of pity. Had 
 we been but avengers, like Armstrong, my friend 
 and I could wellnigh have felt mercy here, and 
 turned back pardoning. But rescue was more 
 imperative than vengeance. Our business tor- 
 tured us, as with tiie fanged scourge of Tisi- 
 phone, while we dallied. We grudged these 
 moments of refreshment. Before night fell down 
 the west, and night was soon to be climbing up 
 the east, we must overtake, — and then ? 
 
 I wiped the dust and spume away from Fula- 
 no's nostrils and breathed him a moment. Then 
 I let him drain deep, deliciovis draughts from the 
 stirrup-cup. He whinnied thanks and undying 
 fealty, — my noble comrade ! He drank like a 
 reveller. When I mounted again, he gave a 
 jubilant curvet and bound. My weight wa? a 
 feather to him. All those leagues of our hard, 
 hot gallop were nothing. 
 
 The brown Sierra here was close at hand. 
 Its glittering, icy summits, above the dark and 
 sheeny 'walls, far above the black phalanxes of 
 clambermg pines, stooped forward and hung over
 
 216 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 US as we rode. We were now at the foot of the 
 range, where it dipped suddenly down upon the 
 plain. The gap, our goal all day, opened before 
 us, grand and terrible. Some giant force had 
 clutched the mountains, and riven them narrowly 
 apart. The wild defile gaped, and then wound 
 away and closed, lost between its mighty walls, 
 a thousand feet high, and bearing two brother 
 pyramids of purple cliffs aloft far above the 
 snow line. A fearful portal into a scene of the 
 throes and agonies of earth ! and my excited eyes 
 seemed to read, gilded ove» its entrance, in the 
 dead gold of that hazy October sunshine, words 
 from Dante's inscription, — 
 
 " Per me si va tra la perduta gente ; 
 Lasciate ogni speranza vol, ch' eutrate ! " 
 
 " Here we are," said Brent, speaking hardly 
 above his breath. " This is Luggernel Alley at 
 last, thank God ! In an hour, if the horses hold 
 out, we shall be at the Springs ; that is, if we can 
 go through this breakneck gorge at the same 
 pace. My horse began to flinch a little before 
 the water. Perhaps that will set him up. How 
 are yours ? " 
 
 " Fulano asserts that he has not begun to show 
 himself yet. I may have to carry you en croupe, 
 before we are done." 
 
 Armstrong said nothing, but pointed impa-
 
 FASTER. 217 
 
 tiently down the defile. The gaunt white horse 
 moved on quicker at this gesture. He seemed a 
 tireless macliine, not flesh and blood, — a being 
 like his master, living and actins: by the force 
 of a purpose alone. 
 
 Our chief led the way into the canon. 
 
 10
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A HOESE. 
 
 Yes, John Brent, you were right when you 
 called Luggernel Alley a wonder of our conti- 
 nent. 
 
 I remember it now, — I only saw it then ; — for 
 those strong scenes of nature assault the soul 
 whether it will or no, fight in against affirmative 
 or negative resistance, and bide their time to bo 
 admitted as dominant over the imagination. It 
 seemed to me then that I was not noticing how 
 grand the precipices, how stupendous the cleav- 
 ages, how rich and gleaming the rock faces in 
 Luggernel Alley. My business was not to stare 
 about, but to look sharp and ride hard ; and I 
 did it. 
 
 Yet now I can remember, distinct as if I beheld 
 it, every stride of that pass ; and everywhere, as I 
 recall foot after foot of that fierce chasm, I see 
 three men with set faces, — one deathly pale and 
 wearing a bloody turban, — all galloping steadily 
 on, on an errand to save and to slay. 
 
 Terrible riding it was ! A pavement of slippery,
 
 A HORSE. 219 
 
 sheeny rock ; great beds of loose stones ; barri- 
 cades of mighty boulders, where a cliff had fallen 
 an aeon ago, before the days of the road-maker 
 race ; crevices where an unwary foot might catch ; 
 wide rifts where a shaky horse might fall, or a 
 timid horseman drag him down. Terrible rid- 
 ing ! A pass where a calm traveller would go 
 quietly picking his steps, thankful if each hour 
 counted him a safe mile. 
 
 Terrible riding ! Madness to go as we went ! 
 Horse and man, any moment either might shat- 
 ter every limb. But man and horse neither 
 can know what he can do, until he has dared and 
 done. On we went, with the old frenzy gTowing 
 tenser. Heart almost broken with eagerness. 
 
 No whipping or spurring. Our horses were 
 a part of ourselves. While we could go, they 
 would go. Since the water, they were full of 
 leap again. Down in the shady Alley, too, even- 
 ing had come before its time. Noon's packing 
 of hot air had been dislodged by a mountain 
 breeze drawing through. Horses and men were 
 braced and cheered to their work ; and in such 
 riding as that, the man and the horse must think 
 together and move together, — eye and hand of 
 the rider must choose and command, as bravely 
 as the horse executes. The blue sky was over- 
 head, the red sun upon the castellated walls a 
 thousand feet above us, the purpling chasm
 
 220 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 opened before. It was late, these were tlie last 
 moments. But we should save the ladj yet. 
 
 "Yes," our hearts shouted to us, " we shall 
 save her yet." 
 
 An arroyo, the channel of a dry torrent, fol- 
 lowed the pass. It had made its way as water 
 does, not straightway, but by that potent feminine 
 method of passing under the frowning front of an 
 obstacle, and leaving the dull rock staring there, 
 while the wild creature it would have held is 
 gliding away down the valley. This zigzag chan- 
 nel baffled us ; we must leap it without check 
 wherever it crossed our path. Every second now 
 was worth a century. Here was the sign of 
 horses, passed but now. We could not choose 
 ground. We must take our leaps on that cruel 
 rock wherever they offered. 
 
 Poor Pumps ! 
 
 He had carried his master so nobly ! There 
 were so few miles to do ! He had chased so 
 well ; he merited to be in at the death. 
 
 Brent lifted him at a leap across the arroyo. 
 
 Poor Pumps ! 
 
 His hind feet slipped on the time-smoothed 
 rock. He fell short. He plunged down a dozen 
 feet among the rough boulders of the torrent- 
 bed. Brent was out of the saddle almost before 
 he struck, raising him. 
 
 No, he would never rise again. Both his fore
 
 A HORSE. 221 
 
 legs were broken at tho knee. He rested there, 
 kneeling on the rocks where he fell. 
 
 Brent groaned. The horse screamed horribly, 
 horribly, — there is no more agonized sound, — 
 and the scream went echoing high up the cliffs 
 where the red sunlight rested. 
 
 It costs a loving master much to butcher his 
 brave and trusty horse, the half of his knightly 
 self; but it costs him more to hear him shriek 
 in such misery. Brent drew his pistol to put 
 poor Pumps out of pain. 
 
 Armstrong sprang down and caught his hand. 
 
 " Stop ! " he said in his hoarse whisper. 
 
 He had hardly spoken, since we started. My 
 nerves were so strained, that this mere ghost of 
 a sound rang through me like a death yell, a 
 grisly cry of merciless and exultant vengeance. 
 I seemed to hear its echoes, rising up and swelling 
 in a flood of thick uproar, until they burst over 
 the summit of the pass and were wasted in the 
 crannies of the towering mountain-flanks above. 
 
 " Stop ! " whispered Armstrong. " No shoot- 
 ing ! They '11 hear. The knife ! " 
 
 He held out his knife to my friend. 
 
 Brent hesitated one heart-beat. Could he stain 
 his hand with his faithful servant's blood ? 
 
 Pumps screamed again. 
 
 Armstrong snatched the knife and drew it 
 across the throat of the crippled horse.
 
 222 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Poor Pumps ! He sank and died without a 
 moan. Noble martyr in the old, heroic cause ! 
 
 I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the 
 thong of my girth. The heavy California sad- 
 dle, with its macheers and roll of blankets, fell 
 to the ground. I cut off my spurs. They had 
 never yet touched Fulano's flanks. He stood 
 beside me quiet, but trembling to be off. 
 
 " Now Brent ! up behind me ! " I whispered, — 
 for the awe of death was upon us. 
 
 I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride 
 light for a tall man. Brent is the slightest body 
 of an athlete I ever saw. 
 
 Fulano stood steady till we were firm in our 
 seats. 
 
 Then he tore down the defile. 
 
 Here was that vast reserve of power ; here the 
 tireless spirit; here the hoof striking true as a 
 thunderbolt, where the brave eye saw footing ; 
 here that writhing agony of speed ; here the 
 great promise fulfilled, the great heart thrilling 
 to mine, the grand body living to the beating 
 heart. Noble Fulano ! 
 
 I rode with a snaffle. I left it hanging loose. 
 I did not check or guide him. He saw all. He 
 knew all. All was his doing. 
 
 We sat firm, clinging as we could, as we must. 
 Fulano dashed along the resounding pass. 
 
 Armstrong pressed after, — the gaunt white
 
 A HOESE. 223 
 
 horse struggled to emulate his leader. Presently 
 we lost them behmd the curves of the Alley. 
 No other horse that ever lived could have held 
 with the black in that headlong gallop to save. 
 
 Over the slippery rocks, over the sheeny pave- 
 ment, plunging through the loose stones, stagger- 
 ing over the barricades, leapmg the arroyo, down, 
 up, on, always on, — on went the horse, we 
 clinging as we might. 
 
 It seemed one beat of time, it seemed an eter- 
 nity, when between the ring of the hoofs I heard 
 Brent whisper in my ear. 
 
 " We are there." 
 
 The crags flung apart, right and left. I saw a 
 sylvan glade. I saw the gleam of gushing water. 
 
 Fulano dashed on, uncontrollable ! 
 
 There they were, — the Murderers. 
 
 Arrived but one moment ! 
 
 The lady still bound to that pack-mule brand- 
 ed A. & A. 
 
 Murker just beginning to unsaddle. 
 
 Larrap not dismounted, in chase of the other 
 animals as they strayed to graze. 
 
 The men heard the tramp and saw us, as we 
 sprang into the glade. 
 
 Both my hands were at the bridle. 
 
 Brent, grasping my waist with one arm, was 
 awkward with his pistol. 
 
 Murker saw us first. He snatched his six-shoot- 
 er and fired.
 
 224 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Brent sliook with a spasm. His pistol arm 
 dropped. 
 
 Before the murderer could cock again, Fulano 
 
 was upon him! 
 
 He was ridden down. He was beaten, tram- 
 pled down upon the grass, — crushed, abolished. 
 
 We disentangled ourselves from the melee. 
 
 Where was the other? 
 
 The coward, without firing a shot, was spur- 
 ring Armstrong's Flathead horse blindly up the 
 canon, whence we had issued. 
 
 We turned to Murker. 
 
 Fulano was up again, and stood there shudder- 
 ing. But the man ? 
 
 A hoof had battered in the top of his skull ; 
 blood was gushing from his mouth ; his ribs were 
 broken ; all his body was a trodden, massacred 
 carcass. 
 
 He breathed once, as we lifted him. 
 
 Then a tranquil, childlike look stole over his 
 face, — that well-known look of the weary body, 
 thankful that the turbulent soul has gone. Mur- 
 ker was dead. 
 
 Fulano, and not we, had been executioner 
 His was the stain of blood.
 
 CHAPTER XXl. 
 
 LUGGERNEL SPRINGS. 
 
 "I AM shot," gasped Brent, and sank down 
 fainting. 
 
 Which first ? the lady, or my friend, slain per- 
 haps for her sake? 
 
 " Her ! see to her ! " he moaned. 
 
 I unbound her from the saddle. I could not 
 utter a word for pity. She essayed to speak ; 
 but her lips only moved. She could not change 
 her look. So many hours hardening herself to 
 repel, she could not soften yet, even to accept 
 my offices with a smile of gratitude. She was 
 cruelly cramped by her lashings to the rough 
 pack-saddle, rudely cushioned with blankets. But 
 the horror had not maddened her ; the torture 
 had not broken her; the dread of worse had 
 not slain her. She was still unblenching and 
 indomitable. And still she seemed to rule her 
 fate with quiet, steady eyes, — gray eyes with 
 violet lights. 
 
 I carried her a few steps to the side of a jubi- 
 10* o
 
 226 JOHN BRKNT. 
 
 lant fouutam lifting beneath a rock, and left hei 
 there to Nature, kindliest leech. 
 
 Then I took a cup of that brilliant water to 
 my friend, my brother. 
 
 " I can die now," he said feebly. 
 
 " There is no death in you. You have won 
 the right to live. Keep a brave heart. Drink !" 
 
 And in that exquisite spot, that fair glade of 
 the sparkling fountains, I gave the noble fellow 
 long draughts of sweet refreshment. The res- 
 cued lady trailed herself across the grass and 
 knelt beside us. My horse, still heaving with 
 his honorable gallop, drooped his head over the 
 group. A picture to be remembered ! 
 
 Who says that knighthood is no more ? Who 
 says the days of chivalry are past? Who says 
 it, is a losel. 
 
 Brent was roughly, but not dangerously, shot 
 along the arm. The bullet had ploughed an ugly 
 path along the muscles of the fore-arm and up- 
 per-arm, and was lodged in the shoulder. A bad 
 wound ; but no bones broken. If he could but 
 have rest and peace and surgery! But if not, 
 after the fever of our day, after the wearing 
 anguish of our doubtful gallop ; if not ? — 
 
 Ellen Clitheroe revived in a moment, when 
 she saw another needed her care. Woman's 
 gentle duty of nurse found her ready for its 
 offices. My blundering good-will gave place will-
 
 LUGGERNEL SPREsIGS. 227 
 
 mgly to her fiue-fiugered skilfulness. She forgot, 
 her own weariness, while she was magnetizing 
 away the pangs of the wounded man by her 
 deKcate touch. 
 
 He looked at me, and smiled with total content. 
 
 " My father ? " asked the lady, faintly, as if she 
 dreaded the answer. 
 
 " Safe ! " said I. " Free from the Mormons. 
 He is waiting for you with a friend." 
 
 Her tears began to flow. She was busy ban- 
 daging the wound. All was silent about us, ex- 
 cept the pleasant gurgle of the fountains, when 
 we heard a shot up the defile. 
 
 The sharp sound of a pistol-shot came leaping 
 down the narrow chasm, flying before the pur- 
 suit of its own thundering echoes. Those grand 
 old walls of the Alley, facing each other there 
 for the shade and sunshine of long, peaceful 
 a3ons, gilded by the glow of countless summers, 
 splashed with the gray of antique lichens on their 
 purple fronts, draped for unnumbered Octobers 
 with the scarlet wreaths of frost-ripened trail- 
 ers, — those solemn walls standing there in old 
 silence, unbroken save by the uproar of winter 
 floods, or by the Immming flight of summer 
 winds, or the louder march of tempests crowding 
 on, — those silent walls, written close with the 
 record of God's handiwork in the long cycles of 
 creation, lifted up their indignant voices when
 
 228 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 the shot within proclaimed to them the undying 
 warfare of man with man, and, roaring after, 
 they hurled that murderous noise forth from 
 their presence. The quick report sprang out 
 from the chasm into the quiet glade, where the 
 lady knelt, bvisy with offices of mercy, and there 
 •it lost its vengeful tone, and was blended with 
 the rumble of the mingled rivulets of the springs. 
 The thundering echoes paused within, slowly 
 proclaiming quiet up from crag to crag, until 
 one after another they whispered themselves to 
 silence. No sound remained, save the rumble 
 of the stream, as it flowed away down the open- 
 ing valley into the haze, violet under gold, of 
 that warm October sunset. 
 
 I sprang up when I heard the shot, and stood 
 on the alert. There were two up the Alley; 
 which, after the shot, was living, and which 
 dead? 
 
 Not many moments had passed, when I heard 
 hoofs coming, and Armstrong rode into view. 
 The gaunt white horse galloped with the long, 
 careless fling I had noticed all day. He moved 
 machine-like, as if without choice or volition of 
 his own, a horse commissioned to carry a Fate. 
 Larrap's stolen horse trotted along by his old 
 master. 
 
 Armstrong glanced at Murker's body lying 
 there, a battered mass.
 
 LUGGERNEL SPRINGS. .229 
 
 " Both ! " he whispered. " The other was 
 sent right into my hands to be put to death. 
 I knew all the time it would be sent to me to 
 do killing. He was spurring up the Alley on 
 my own horse. He snapped at me. My pistol 
 did not know how to snap. See here ! " 
 
 And he showed me, hanging from his saddle- 
 horn, that loathliest of all objects a man's eyes 
 ever lighted upon, a fresh scalp. It sickened 
 me. 
 
 " Shame ! " said I. " Do you call yourself a 
 man, to bring such a thing into a lady's pres- 
 ence ? " 
 
 "It was rather mean to take the fellow's 
 hair," says Armstrong. " I don't believe broth- 
 er Bill would have did it. But I felt orful ugly, 
 when I saw that fat, low-lived devil, and thought 
 of my brother, a big, hul-hearted man as never 
 gave a bad word to nobody, and never held on 
 to a dollar or a slug when ayry man wanted it 
 more 'n him. Come, I '11 throw the nasty thing 
 away, if you say so." 
 
 " Help me drag off this corpse, and we '11 bury 
 man and scalp together," I said. 
 
 We buried him at the gate of the Alley, under 
 a great cairn of stones. 
 
 " God forgive them both," said I, as I flung 
 the last stone, " that they were brutes, and not 
 men."
 
 230 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " Brutes they was, stranger," says Armstrong , 
 "but these thhigs is ordered somehow. I al- 
 low your pardener and you is glad to get that 
 gal out of a Mormon camp, ef it did cost him a 
 horse and both on you an all day's tremble. 
 Men don't ride so hard, and look so wolfish, as 
 you two men have did, onless their heart is into 
 it." 
 
 " It is, indeed, strange," said I, rather think- 
 ing aloud than addressing my companion, " that 
 this brute force should have achieved for us by 
 outrage what love failed in. Pate seems to have 
 played Brute against Brute, that Love might 
 step between and claim the victory. The lady 
 is safe ; but the lover may have won her life and 
 lost his own." 
 
 " Look here, stranger," says Armstrong, " part 
 of this is yourn," pointing to the money-belt, 
 which, with the dead man's knife and pistol, he 
 had taken from the corpse. " Halves of this 
 and the other fellow's plunder belongs to your 
 party." 
 
 I suppose I looked disgusted ; yet I have seen 
 gentle ladies wearing boastfully brooches that 
 their favorite heroes had taken from Christian 
 men dead on the field at Inkermann, and shawls 
 of the loot of Delhi cover many shoulders that 
 would shudder over a dead worm. 
 
 "I 'm not squimmidge," said Armstrong.
 
 LUG3ERNEL SPRINGS. 231 
 
 " It 's my own aud my brother's money in them 
 belts. I '11 count that out, aud then, ef you wont 
 take your part, I '11 pass it over to the gal's fa- 
 ther. I allowed from signs ther was, that that 
 thar boss Mormon had about tuk the old man's 
 pile. Most likely these shiners they won last 
 night is some of the very sufferins Sizzum got 
 from him. It 's right he should hev 'em back." 
 
 I acknowledged the justice of this restitution. 
 
 " Now," said Armstrong again, " you want 
 to stay by your friend and the gal, so I '11 take 
 one of the pack mules and fetch your two sad- 
 dles along before dark lights down. It was too 
 bad to lose that iron gray ; but there 's more 'n 
 two horses into the hide of that black of yourn. 
 He was the best man of the lot for the goin', the 
 savin', and the killin'. Stranger, I 've ben byin' 
 and sellin' and breedin' kettrypids ever since 
 I was raised myself; but I allow I never seed 
 a HORSE till I seed him lunge off with you two 
 on his back." 
 
 Armstrong rode up the Alley again. Another 
 man he was since his commission of vengeance 
 had been accomplished. In those lawless wilds, 
 vendetta takes the place of justice, becomes jus- 
 tice indeed. Armstrong, now that his stern duty 
 was done, was again the kindly, simple fellow 
 nature made him, the type of a class between 
 pioneer and settler, and a strong, brave, cflfective
 
 232 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 class it is. It was the education, in youth, in 
 the sturdy habits of this class, that made oui 
 Washington the manly chief he was. 
 
 I returned to my friends by the Springs. 
 
 Emerghig from the austere grandeur of ths 
 Alley, dim with the shadows of twilight, thfc 
 scene without was doubly sweet and almost do- 
 mestic. The springs, four or five in number, 
 and one carrying with it a thread of hot steam, 
 sprang rigorously out along the bold edges of the 
 cliffs. All the ground was verdure, — green, ten- 
 der, and brilliant, a feast to the eyes after long 
 staring over sere deserts. The wild creatures that 
 came there every day for refreshment, and per- 
 haps for intoxication in the aerated tipple of the 
 Champagne Spring, kept the grass grazed short 
 as the turf of a park. Two great spruce-trees, 
 each with one foot under the rocks, and one 
 edging fountainward, stood, pillar under pyra- 
 mid. Some wreaths of drooping creepers, float- 
 ing from the crags, had caught and clung, and 
 so gone winding among the dark foliage of the 
 twin trees ; and now their leaves, ripened by 
 autumn, shook amid the dusky green like an 
 alighting of orioles. Except for the spruces 
 posted against the cliffs, the grassy area of an 
 acre about the springs was clear of other growth 
 than grass. Below, the rivulet disappeared in 
 a green thicket, and farther down were large
 
 LUGGEENEL SPRINGS. 233 
 
 cottonwoods, and one tall stranger tree, the femi- 
 nine presence of a drooping elm, as much un- 
 looked for here as the sweet, delicate woman 
 whom strange chances had brought to dignify 
 and grace the spot. This stranger elm filled my 
 heart with infinite tender memories of home, and 
 of those early boyish days when Brent and I 
 lay under the Berkeley College elms, or strayed 
 beneath the elm-built arches up and down the 
 avenues of that fair city clustered round the 
 College. In those bright days, before sorrow 
 came to liim, or to me my harsh necessity, we 
 two in brotherhood had trained each other to 
 high thoughts of courtesy and love, — a dreamed- 
 of love for large heroic souls of women, when 
 our time of full-completed worthiness should 
 come. And his time had come. And yet it 
 might be that the wounded knight would never 
 know his lady, as much loving as beloved ; it 
 might be that he would never find a sweeter 
 soothing in her touch, than the mere touch of 
 gratitude and common charity ; it might be that 
 he would fever away his beautiful life with the 
 fever of his wound, and never feel the holy 
 quiet of a lover's joy when the full bliss of love 
 returned is his. 
 
 I gave a few moments to the horses and mules. 
 They were still to be unsaddled. Healthy Fu- 
 lano had found his own way to water, and now
 
 234 JOHN BRElSiT. 
 
 was feasting on the crisp, short grass along the 
 outlet of the Champagne Spring, tickling his nose 
 with the bubbles of gas as they sped by. Sup, 
 Fulano ! This spot was worth the gallop to see 
 Sup, Fulano, the brave, and may no stain of this 
 day's rigliteous death-doing rest upon your guilt- 
 less life ! 
 
 Brent was lying under the spruces, drowsing 
 with fatigue, reaction, and loss of blood. Miss 
 Clitheroe sat by watching him. These fine be- 
 ings have an exquisitely tenacious vitality. The 
 happiness of release had suddenly kindled all 
 her life again. As she rose to meet me, there 
 was light in her eyes and color in her cheeks. 
 Her whole soul leaped up and spoke its large 
 gratitude in a smile. 
 
 " My dear friend," she said ; and then, wijh 
 sudden tearfulness, " God be thanked for youi 
 heroism ! " 
 
 " God be thanked ! " I repeated. " We have 
 been strangely selected and sent, -—n^u from 
 England, my friend and I, and my horse, the 
 hero of the day, from the Pacific, — to interfere 
 here in each other's lives." 
 
 " It would seem romance, but for the sharp 
 terror of this day, coming after the long agony 
 of my journey with my poor, errant father." 
 
 " A sharp terror, indeed ! " 
 
 " But only terror ! " and a glow of maidenly
 
 LUGGERKEL SPEIXGS. 235 
 
 thankfulness passed over her face. " Except one 
 moment of rough usage, when I slipped away 
 my gag and screamed as they carried me off, 
 those men were considerate to me. They never 
 halted except to dig a well in the sand of a river- 
 bed. I learned from their talk that they had 
 made an attempt to steal your horses in the 
 night, and, failing, dreaded lest you, and espe- 
 cially Mr. Brent, would follow them close. So 
 they rode hard. They supposed that, when I was 
 found missing, whoever went in pursuit, and you 
 they always feared, would lose time along the 
 emigrant road, searching eastward." 
 
 " We might have done so ; but we had our- 
 selves ridden off that way in despair of aiding 
 you," — and I gave her a sketch of the events 
 of the morning. 
 
 " It was the hope of succor from you that sus- 
 tained me. After what your friend said to me 
 last evening, I knew he could not abandon me, 
 if he had power to act." And she looked very 
 tenderly at the sleeper, — a look to repay him 
 for a thousand wounds. 
 
 " Did you find my glove ? " she asked. 
 
 " He has it. That token assured us. Ah ! 
 you should have seen that dear wounded boy, 
 our leader, when he knew we were not astray." 
 
 I continued my story of our pursuit, — the 
 lulling beat of the stream undertoning my words
 
 236 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 in the still twilight. When I came to that last 
 wild burst of Fulano, and told how his heroic 
 charge had fulfilled his faithful ardor of the day, 
 she sprang up, thrilled out of all weariness, and 
 ran to the noble fellow, where he was taking his 
 dainty banquet by the brookside. 
 
 She flung her arms around his neck and rested 
 her head upon his shoulder. Locks of her black 
 hair, escaping into curls, mingled with his mane. 
 
 Presently Miss Clitheroe seemed to feel a 
 maidenly consciousness that her caresses of the 
 horse might remind the horse's master that he 
 was not unworthy of a like reward. She re- 
 turned to my friend. He was stirring a little in 
 pain. She busied herself about him tenderly, 
 and yet with a certain distance of manner, build 
 ing a wall of delicate decorum between him and 
 herself. Indeed, from the beginning of our ac- 
 quaintance yesterday, and now in this meeting 
 of to-day, she had drawn apart from Brent, and 
 frankly approached me. Her fine instinct knew 
 the brother from the lover. 
 
 Armstrong presently rode out again. 
 
 "When he saw his brother's sorrel horse feeding 
 with the others, he wept like a child. 
 
 We two, the lady and I, were greatly touched. 
 
 " I 've got a daughter myself, to home to the 
 Umpqua," said Armstrong, turning to Miss Cli- 
 theroe ; "jest about your settin' up, and jest
 
 LUGGERNEL SPRINGS. 237 
 
 about as many corn shuckius old. Ellen is 
 her name." 
 
 " Ellen is my name." 
 
 "That's pretty" (pooty he pronounced it). 
 " Well, I '11 stand father to you, just as ef you 
 was my own gal. I know what a gal in trouble 
 wants more 'n young fellows can." 
 
 Ellen Clitheroe gave her hand to Armstrong 
 in frank acceptance of his oifer. He became the 
 paternal element in our party, — he protecting 
 her and she humanizing him. 
 
 We lighted our camp-fire and supped heartily. 
 Except for Brent's uneasy stir and unwilling 
 moans, we might have forgotten the deadly busi- 
 ness of that day. 
 
 We made the wounded man comfortable as 
 might be with blankets, under the sheltering 
 spruces. After all, if he must be hurt, he could 
 not have fallen upon a better hospital than the 
 pure open air of this beautiful shelter ; and surely 
 nowhere was a gentler nurse than his. 
 
 Armstrong and I built the lady a bower, a lit- 
 tle lodge of bushes from the thicket. 
 
 Then he and I kept watch and watch beneath 
 the starlight. 
 
 Sleeping or waking, our souls and our bodies 
 thanked God for this peace of a peaceful night, 
 after the terror and tramp and battle of that 
 trembling day.
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 CHAMPAGNE. 
 
 How soundly I slept, in my sleeping hours, 
 after our great victory, — Courage over Space, 
 Hope over Time, Love over Brutality, the Heav- 
 enly Powers over the Demon Forces ! 
 
 I sprang up, after my last morning slumber, 
 with vitality enough for my wounded friend and 
 myself. I felt that I could carry double responsi- 
 bility, as Fulano had carried double weight. God 
 has given me the blessing of a great, vigorous 
 life. My body has always been a perfect machine 
 for my mind's work, such as that may be ; and 
 never a better machine, with every valve, crank, 
 joint, and journal in good order, than on that 
 dawn at Luggernel Springs. 
 
 If I had not awaked alive from top to toe, from 
 tip to tip, from end to end, alive in muscle, 
 nerve, and brain, the Luggernel Champagne 
 Spring would have put life into me. 
 
 Champagne of Rheims and Epernay ! Bah ! 
 
 Avaunt, Veuve Clicquot, thou elderly Hebe ! 
 Avaunt, with thy besugared,begassed, bedevilled,
 
 CHAMPAGNE. 239 
 
 becorked, bewired, poptious manufacture ! Some 
 day, at a dull dinner-party, I will think of thee 
 and poison myself with thy poison, that I may be- 
 come deaf to the voice of the vulgar woman to 
 whom some fatal hostess may consign me. But 
 now let no thought of Champagne, even of that 
 which the Yeuve may keep for her moment most 
 lacrymose of " veuvage," interfere with my re- 
 membrance of the Luggernel Spring. 
 
 Champagne to that ! More justly a Satyr to 
 Hyperion ; a stage-moon to Luna herself ; an Old- 
 World peach to a peach of New Jersey ; a Dem- 
 ocratic Platform to the Declaration of Indepen- 
 dence ; a pinching, varnished boot to a winged 
 sandal of Mercury ; Faustina to Charlotte Corday ; 
 a senatorial speech to a speech of Wendell Phil- 
 lips ; anything crude, base, and sham to anything 
 fine, fresh, and true. 
 
 Ah, poor Kissingen ! Alas, unfragrant Sha- 
 ron ! Alack, stale Saratoga ! Ichabod ! Adieu 
 to you all when the world knows the virtues of 
 Luggernel ! 
 
 But never when the 0-fortunatus-nimium world 
 has come into this new portion of its heritage, — 
 never when Luggernel is renowned and fashion 
 blooms about its brim, — never when gentlemen 
 of the creamiest cream in the next half-century 
 offer to ladies as creamy beakers bubbling full 
 of that hypernectareous tipple, — never will any
 
 240 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 finer body or fairer soul of a woman be seen there 
 about than her whom I served that morning. 
 And, indeed, among the heroic gentlemen of the 
 riper time to come, I cannot dream that any will 
 surpass in all the virtues and courtesies of the 
 cavalier my friend John Brent, now dismounted 
 and lying there wounded and patient. 
 
 Oranges before breakfast are good. There be 
 who on awakening gasp for the cocktail. And 
 others, who, fuddled last night, are limp in their 
 lazy beds, till soda-water lends them its fizzle. 
 Eye-openers these of moderate calibre. But, with 
 all the vigorous vitality I have claimed, perhaps 
 I might still have remembered yesterday with 
 its Gallop of Three, its suspense, its eager dash 
 and its certainty, and remembered them with 
 new anxieties for to-day, except for my morning 
 draught of exhilaration from the unbottled, un- 
 mixed sources of Luggernel. Thanks La Gre- 
 nouille, rover of the wilderness, for thy froggish 
 instinct and this blissful discovery ! 
 
 I stooped and lapped. Long ago Gideon Ba- 
 rakson recognized the thorough-going braves be- 
 cause they took their water by the throatful, not 
 by the palmful. And when I had lapped enough, 
 and let the great bubbles of laughing gas burst 
 in my face, I took a beaker, — to be sure it was 
 battered tin, ana had hung at the belt of a das- 
 tard, — a beaker of that " cordial julep " to my
 
 CHAMP AGUE. 241 
 
 friend. He was awake and looking about him, 
 seeking for some one. 
 
 " Come to your gruel, old fellow ! " said I. 
 
 He drank the airy water and sat up revived. 
 
 "It is like swallowing the first sunbeam on the 
 crown of a snow-peak," he said. 
 
 Miss Clitheroe dawned upon us with this. She 
 came forth from her lodge, fresh and full of 
 cheer. 
 
 Brent stopped looking about for some one. 
 The One had entered upon the scene. 
 
 I dipped for her also that poetry in a tin pot. 
 
 " This," said she, " is finer balm than the 
 enchanted cup of Comus ; never did lips touch a 
 draught 
 
 ' To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst.' 
 
 To-day my life is worthy of this nepenthe. My 
 dear friend, this is the first night of peaceful, 
 hopeful rest I have had, since my poor father was 
 betrayed into liis delusion. Thank you and God 
 for it ! " 
 
 And again her eyes filled with happy tears, 
 and she knelt by her patient. While she was 
 tenderly and deftly renewing the bandages, Arm- 
 strong stood by, and inspected the wound in 
 silence. Presently he walked off and called me 
 to help him with our camp-fire. 
 
 " Pretty well ploughed up, that arm of his'n," 
 said he. 
 
 11 V
 
 242 JOHN BRENT. ■ 
 
 " I have seen amputation performed for less." 
 
 " Then I 'm dum glad there 's no sawbones 
 about. I don't believe Nater means a man's 
 leg or arm to go, until she breaks the solid 
 bone, so that it ain't to be sot nohow. But 
 what do you allow to do ? Lamm ahead or 
 squat here ? " 
 
 " You are the oldest ; you have most expe- 
 rience ; I will take your advice." 
 
 " October is sweet as the smile of a gal when 
 she hears that her man has made fifteen hundred 
 dollars off the purceeds of a half-acre of onions, 
 to the mines ; but these yer fall storms is reg'lar 
 Injuns ; they light down 'thout sendin' on hand- 
 bills. We ought to be p'intin' for home if we 
 can." 
 
 " But Brent's wound ! Can he travel ? " 
 
 " Now, about that wound, there 's two ways of 
 lookin' at it. We ken stop here, or we ken poot 
 for Laramie. I allow that it oughter take that 
 arm of his'n a month to make itself right. Now 
 in a month ther '11 be p'r'aps three feet of snow 
 whar we stand." 
 
 " We must go on." 
 
 " Besides, lookerhere ! Accordin' to me the 
 feelin's mean suthin', when a man's got any. 
 He '11 be all the time worryin' about the gal till 
 he gets her to her father. It 's my judgment 
 she'd better never see the old man agin ; but I
 
 CHAMPAGNE. 243 
 
 would n't want my Ellen to quit me, ef I was an 
 unliealthy gonoph like him. Daughters ought to 
 stick closer 'n twitch-grass to their fathers, and 
 sons to their mothers, and she ain't one to knock 
 off lovin' anybody she 's guv herself to love. 
 No, she 's one of the stiddy kind, — stiddy as the 
 stars. He knows that, that there pardener of 
 yourn knows it, and his feelin's won't give his 
 arm no rest until she 's got the old man to take 
 care of and follow off on his next streak. So 
 we must poot for Laramie, live or die. Thar '11 
 be a doctor there. Ef we ken find the way, it 
 should n't take us more 'n ten days. I '11 poot 
 him on Bill's sorrel, jest as gentle a horse as Bill 
 was that rode him, and we '11 see ef we hain't 
 worked out the bad luck out of all of us, for one 
 while." 
 
 Armstrong's opinion was only my own, ex- 
 pressed Oregonly. We went on preparing break- 
 fast. 
 
 " That there A. & A. mule," says Armstrong, 
 " was Bill's and mine, and this stuff in the packs 
 was ours. I don't know what the fellers did 
 with the two mean mustangs they was ridin' 
 when they found us fust on Bear River, — used 
 'em up, I reckon." 
 
 Here Brent hailed us cheerily. 
 
 " Look alive there, you two cooks ! We idlers 
 here want to be travelling."
 
 244 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 "I told you so," said Armstroug. "He un- 
 derstands this business jest as well as we do. 
 He '11 go till he draps. Thar 's grit into him, ef 
 I know grit." 
 
 Yes ; but when I saw him sit still with his 
 back agamst the spruce-tree, and remembered his 
 exuberant life of other days, I desponded. He 
 soon took occasion to speak to me apart. 
 
 " Dick," said he, " you see how it is. I am 
 not good for much. If we were alone, you and 
 I might settle here for a month or so, and write 
 ' Bubbles from the Briinnen.' But there is a lady 
 in the case. It is plain where she belongs. I 
 know every inch of the way to Laramie. I can 
 take you through in a week" — he paused and 
 quavered a little, as he continued — "if I live. 
 But don't look so anxious, I shall." 
 
 " It would be stupid for you to die now, John 
 Brent the Lover, with the obstacles cut away and 
 an heroic basis of operations." 
 
 " A wounded man, perhaps a dying man, has 
 no business with love. I will never present her 
 my services and ask pay. But, Dick, if I should 
 wear out, you wiU know what to say to her for 
 me." 
 
 At this she joined us, her face so illumined 
 with resolution and hope that we both kindled. 
 All doubt skulked away from her presence. 
 Brent was nerved to rise and walk a few steps
 
 CHAJIPAGNE. 245 
 
 to the camp-fire, supported by her arm and 
 mine. 
 
 Armstrong had breakfast ready, such as it was. 
 And really, the brace of wood grouse he had 
 shot that morning, not a hundred yards from 
 camp, were not unworthy of a lady's table, 
 though they had never made journey in a 
 crowded box, over a slow raiboad, from Chicago 
 to New York, in a January thaw, and then been 
 bought at half price of a street pedler, a few 
 hours before they dropped to pieces. 
 
 We grouped to depart. 
 
 " I shall remember all this for scores of 
 sketches," said Miss Clitheroe. 
 
 And indeed there was material. The rocks 
 behind threading away and narrowing into the 
 dim gorge of the Alley ; the rushing fountains, 
 one with its cloud of steam ; the two great 
 spruces ; the greensward ; the thickets ; and 
 above them a far-away glimpse of a world, all 
 run to top and flinging itself up into heaven, a 
 tumult of crag and pimiacle. So much for the 
 scenery. And for personages, there was Arm- 
 sti'ong, with his head turbaned, saddling the 
 white machine ; the two mules, packed and taking 
 their last nibbles of verdure ; Miss Clitheroe, in 
 her round hat and with a green blanket rigged 
 as riding-skirt, mounted upon the sturdy roan ; 
 Brent resting on my shoulder, and stepping on
 
 246 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 mj knee, as he climbed painfully to his seat on 
 the tall sorrel ; Don Fulano waiting, proud and 
 eager. And just as we were starting, a stone fell 
 from overhead into the water ; and lookmg up, 
 we saw a bighorn studying us from the crags, 
 wisliing, no doubt, that his monster horns were 
 ears to comprehend our dialect. 
 
 I gave the party their stirrup-cup from the 
 Champagne Spring. The waters gurgled adieu. 
 Rich sunrise was upon the purple gates of the 
 pass. We struck a trail through the thicket. 
 
 Good bye to the Luggernel Springs and Lug- 
 gernel Alley ! to that scene of tragedy and tra- 
 gedy escaped !
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AN IDYL OF THE ROCKTS. 
 
 I SHALL make short work of our journey to 
 Laramie. 
 
 We bent northeastwardly by ways known to 
 our leader, — alas ! leader no more. He could 
 guide, but no more gallop in front and beckon 
 on the cavalcade. 
 
 It was a grand journey. A wild one, and 
 rough for a lady. But this lady was made of 
 other stuff than the mistresses of lapdogs. 
 
 We crossed the backbone of the continent, 
 climbing up the clefts between the ragged verte- 
 bras, and over the top of that meandering spine, 
 fleshed with great grassy mounds ; then plunging 
 down again among the rifts and glens. 
 
 A brilliant quartette ours would have been, 
 but for my friend's wound. Four people, all 
 with fresh souls and large and pecuhar expe- 
 rience. 
 
 Except for my friend's wound ! 
 
 My friend, closer than a brother, how I felt for 
 him every mile of that stern journey ! He never
 
 248 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 complained. Only once he said to me, " Bodily 
 agony has something to teach, I find, as well as 
 mental." 
 
 Never one word of his suffering, except that. 
 He wore slowly away. Every day he grew a 
 little weaker in body ; but every day the strong 
 spirit lifted the body to its work. He must live 
 to be our guide, that he felt. He must be cheer- 
 ful, gay even, lest the lady he had saved should 
 too bitterly feel that her safety was daily paid 
 for by his increasing agony. Every day that 
 ichor of love baptized him with new life. He 
 breathed love and was strong. But it was love 
 confined to his own consciousness. Wounded, 
 and dying perhaps, unless his life could beat 
 time by a day or an hour, he would not throw 
 any share of his sufiering on another, on her, 
 by calling for the sympathy which a woman 
 gives to her lover. 
 
 Did she love him ? Ah ! that is the ancient 
 riddle. Only the Sphinx herself can answer. 
 Those fair faces of women, with their tender 
 smiles, their quick blushes, their starting tears, 
 still wear a mask until the moment comes for 
 unmasking. If she did not love him, — this 
 man of all men most lovable, this feminine soul 
 in the body of a hero, this man who had spilled 
 his blood for her, whose whole history had 
 trained him for those crowning hours of a chiv-
 
 AN IDYL OF THE ROCKYS. 249 
 
 alric life when the lover led our Gallop of Three ; 
 if she did not love him, she must be, I thought, 
 some bloodless creature of a type other than 
 human, an angel and no woman, a creature 
 not yet truly embodied into the body of love 
 we seemed to behold. 
 
 She was sweetly tender to him ; but that the 
 wound, received for her sake, merited ; that was 
 hardly more than the gracious thankfulness she 
 lavished upon us all. What an exquisite wo- 
 man ! How calmly she took her place, lofty and 
 serene, above all the cloudy atmosphere of such 
 a bewildering life as hers had been ! How large 
 and deep and mature the charity she had drawn, 
 even so young, from the strange contrasts of her 
 history ! How her keen observation of a woman 
 of genius had grasped and stored away the dia- 
 mond, or the dust of diamond, in every drift 
 across her life ! 
 
 She grew more beautiful daily. Those weary 
 days when, mile after dreary mile, the listless 
 march of the Mormon caravan bore her farther 
 and farther away into hopeless exile, were gone 
 forever. She breathed ruddy hope now. Before, 
 she had filtered hope from every breath and only 
 taken the thin diet of pale endurance. All fu- 
 ture possibility of trial, after her great escape, 
 seemed nothing. She was confident of Brent's 
 instant recovery, with repose, and a surgeon 
 11*
 
 250 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 more skilful than she, at Fort Laramie. She 
 was sure that now her father's wandermg life 
 was over, and that he would let her find him a 
 home and win him a living in some quiet region 
 of America, where all his sickly fancies would 
 pass away, and his old age would glide serenely. 
 
 It would be long, too long, for the movement 
 of this history, should I attempt to detail the 
 talks and minor adventures of that trip by which 
 the character of all my companions became bet- 
 ter known to me. 
 
 For the wounded man's sake we made length- 
 ened rests at noonday, and camped with the ear- 
 liest coming of twilight. Those were the moon- 
 light nights of brilliant October. How strange 
 and solemn and shadowy the mountains rose 
 about our bivouacs ! It was the poetry of camp- 
 life, and to every scene by a fountain, by a tor- 
 rent, m a wild dell, on a mountain meadow with 
 a vision of a snow-peak watching us all the starry 
 night and passing through rosiness into splendor 
 at sunrise,-— to every scene, stern or fair, our 
 comrade gave the poetry of a woman's presence 
 and a woman's fine perception of the minuter 
 charm of nature. 
 
 And then — think of it ! — she had a genius 
 for cookery. I have known this same power in 
 other fine poetic and artistic beings. She had a 
 genius for imaginative cookery, — a rich inheri-
 
 AN IDYI. OF TKE ROCKYS. 251 
 
 tance from her father's days of poverty and 
 coal-mining. She insisted upon her share of 
 camp-duty ; and her great gray eyes were often 
 to be seen gravely fixed upon a frying-pan, or 
 watching a roasting bird, as it twirled slowly 
 before the fire, with a strip of pork featly dis- 
 posed overhead to baste that succulent revolver ; 
 while Brent, poor fellow, lay upon the grass, 
 wrapped in blankets, slowly accumulating force 
 for the next day's journey, and watched her with 
 wonderment and delight that she could conde- 
 scend to be a household goddess. 
 
 " Ther ain't her ikwill to be scared up," would 
 Armstrong say on these occasions. " I 'm gittin' 
 idees to make my Ellen the head woman on 
 all the Umpqua. I wish I had her along ; for 
 she 's a doughcyle gal, and takes nat'ral to pooty 
 notions in thinkin' and behavior and fixin' up 
 things ginerally." 
 
 Armstrong became more and more the pater- 
 nal element in our party. Memory of the Ellen 
 on the Umpqua made him fatherly thoughtful for 
 the Ellen here, a wanderer across the Rocky 
 Mountains. And she returned more than he 
 gave, in the sweet civilizing despotism of a lady. 
 That grizzly turban presently disappeared from 
 his head. Decorous bandages replaced it. With 
 that token went from him the sternness. He 
 was a frank, honest, kindly fellow, shrewd and
 
 252 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 unflincliing, but one who would never have hfted 
 his hand against a human being except for that 
 great, solemn duty of an exterminating ven 
 geance. That done, he was his genial self again. 
 We never tired of his tales of plains and Oregon 
 life, told in his own vivid dialect. He was the 
 patriarchal pioneer, a man with the personal 
 freedom of a nomad, and the unschooled wis- 
 dom of a founder of states in the wilderness. A 
 mighty hunter, too, was Armstrong. No day 
 passed that we did not bag an antelope, a deer, 
 or a big-horn. It was the very land of Cocaigne 
 for game. The creatures were so hospitable that 
 it hardly seemed proper gratitude to kill them ; 
 even that great brown she-bear, who one night 
 " popped her head into the shop," and, muttering 
 something which in the Bruin lingo may have 
 been, "What! no soap!" smote Armstrong with 
 a paw which years of sucking had not made 
 tender. 
 
 Except for Brent's wound, we four might 
 have had a joyous journey, full of the true savor 
 of brave travel. But that ghastly, murderous 
 hurt of his needed most skilful surgery, and 
 needed most of all repose with a mind at peace. 
 He did not mend ; but all the while 
 
 " The breath 
 Of her sweet tendance hovering over him 
 Filled all the genial courses of his blood 
 With deeper and with ever deeper love."
 
 AN IDYL OF THE ROCKYS. 253 
 
 But he did not mend. He wasted daily. His 
 sleeps became deathly trances. We could not 
 wear him out with haste. Brave heart ! he bore 
 up like a brave. 
 
 And at last one noon we drew out of the 
 Black Hills, and saw before us, across the spurs 
 of Laramie Peak, the broad plain of Fort 
 Laramie. 
 
 Brent revived. We rode steadily. Just be- 
 fore sunset, we pulled up at our goaL
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 DEAPETOMANIA. 
 
 For the last hour I had ridden close to Brent. 
 I saw that it was almost up with him. He 
 swayed in his saddle. His eye was glazed and 
 dull. But he kej^t his look fixed on the little 
 group of Laramie Barracks, and let his horse 
 carry him. 
 
 I lifted up my heart in prayer that this noble 
 life might not be quenched. He must not die 
 now that he was enlarged and sanctified by tru- 
 est love. 
 
 At last we struck open country. Bill Arm- 
 strong's sorrel took a cradling lope ; we rode 
 through a camp of Sioux " tepees," like so many 
 great white foolscaps ; we turned the angle of a 
 great white wooden building, and halted. I 
 sprang from Fulano, Brent quietly drooped down 
 into my arms. 
 
 " Just in time," said a cheerful, manly voice at 
 my ear. 
 
 " I hope so," said I. " Is it Captain Ruby ? "
 
 DEAPETOMANIA. 255 
 
 "Yes. We'll take liim into my bed. Dr. 
 Patliie, here 's a patient for you." 
 
 We carried Brent in. As we crossed the ve- 
 randa, I saw Miss Clitheroc's meeting with her 
 father. He received her almost peevishly. 
 
 We laid the wounded man in Ruby's hospital 
 bed. Evidently a fine fellow, Ruby ; and, what 
 was to the point, fond of John Brent. 
 
 Dr. Pathie shook his head. 
 
 So surgeons are wont to do when they study 
 sick men. It is a tacit recognition of the dark 
 negative upon which they are to turn the glim- 
 mer of their positive, — a recognition of the mys- 
 tery of being. They are to experiment upon life, 
 and their chief facts are certain vaguish theories 
 why some men die. 
 
 The surgeon shook his head. It was a move- 
 ment of sympathy for the man, as a man. Then 
 he proceeded to consider him as a machine, 
 which it was a surgeon's business to repair. 
 Ruby and I stood by anxiously, while the skilled 
 craftsman inspected. Was this insensible, but 
 still breathing creature, only panting away the 
 last puffs of his motive power ? or was it capable 
 mechanism still ? 
 
 " Critical case," said Dr. Pathie, at last. He 
 had great, umbrageous eyebrows, and a gentle, 
 peremptory manner, as of one who had done 
 much merciful cruelty in his day. " Ugly wound.
 
 256 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 Never saw a worse furrow. Conical ball. Kq 
 must have been almost at the muzzle of the 
 pistol. He ought not to have stirred for a 
 month. How he has borne such a journey with 
 that arm, I cannot conceive. Strong character, 
 eh ? Passionate young fellow ? Life means 
 something to him. Well, Nature nominates such 
 men to get into scrapes for other people ; she 
 gets them wounded, and drains them of their 
 blood. Lying on their backs is good for them, 
 and so is feeling weak. They take in more emo- 
 tion than they can assimilate while they are wide 
 awake. They would go frenzied with over- 
 crowded brain, if they were not shut up into 
 themselves sometimes, by sickness or sorrow. 
 There 's not much to do for him. A very neat 
 hand has been at his bandages. Now, if he is a 
 man with a distinct and controlling purpose in 
 his life, — if he has words to say, or deeds, or 
 duties to do, and knows it, — he will hold by his 
 life ; if not, not. Keep him quiet. And do not 
 let him see, or hear, or feel the presence of that 
 beautiful young woman. She is not his sister, 
 and she will have too much trouble herself to be 
 a tranquil nurse for him here." 
 
 I left him with his patient, and went out to 
 care for our horses. Ruby, model host;, had 
 saved me all trouble. 
 
 " I have given Miss Clitheroe my sole guest
 
 DRAPETOMANIA. 257 
 
 chamber," he said. " She has a lady's-maid in 
 the brawny person of an Irish corporaless. What 
 a transcendent being she is ! I don't wonder 
 Brent loves her, as I divined he did from what 
 Jake Sliamberlain — slirewd fellow Jake — said 
 when he consigned the father to me." 
 
 " I must have a talk with the old gentleman. 
 0, there he is with Armstrong." 
 
 Armstrong was handing him the money-belt. 
 His eyes gleamed as he clutched it. 
 
 " Walk off with me a step," said Ruby, " be- 
 fore you speak to him." 
 
 We strolled off through the Sioux encamp- 
 ment. The warriors, tall fellows with lithe 
 forms, togaed in white blankets, were smoking 
 in a circle. Only the great chiefs were in tog- 
 gery of old uniforms, blossoming into brass but- 
 tons wherever a button could bourgeon. And 
 only the great chiefs resembled frowzy scare- 
 crows. The women, melancholy, as the abused 
 women of barbarians always are, were slouching 
 about at slave work. All greeted Ruby as s 
 friend, with sonorous grunts. 
 
 Society, even of Sioux, dwelUng under buffalo 
 hide foolscaps, was humane after our journey 
 The barracks of Laramie, lonely outpost on a 
 bleak plain, were fairly beautiful in their home- 
 like homeliness. Man without a roof is mcro 
 chaos.
 
 258 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 " Trouble in store, I fear," said Captain Ruby, 
 " for Mr. Clitheroe and all who care for him." 
 
 " He ought to be at peace at last." 
 
 " He is not. Dr. Pathie says he is a case of 
 Drapetomania." 
 
 " I have heard that outlandish word used to 
 express the tendency — diseased of course — that 
 negroes have to run away from their masters." 
 
 " Mr. Clitheroe is wild to get away from his 
 proper master, namely, himself." 
 
 " A desperate malady ! At his age almost 
 fatal." 
 
 " So Pathie says. When a man of Mr. Cli- 
 theroe' s age is not at peace within, he goes into 
 war with his circumstances. He cannot conquer 
 them, so he runs away. He has always before 
 him a shadow of a dream of what he might have 
 been, and that ghost drives him and chases him, 
 until it wears him out." 
 
 " Yes ; but it is not only the forlorn and disap- 
 pointed that this pitiable disease attacks. Very 
 rich and prosperous suffer, become drapetoma- 
 niacs, sell houses and build new, change neigh- 
 borhoods, travel furiously, never able to escape 
 from that inevitable companion of a reproaching 
 self." 
 
 " Mr. Clitheroe is chafing to be gone. I start 
 a train for the States to-morrow, — the last chance 
 to travel with escort this season, — a small topo-
 
 DEAPETOMANIA. 259 
 
 graphical party going back. He has been for the 
 last few days iu a passion of impatience, almost 
 scolding me and your party, his daughter, and 
 circumstances, lest you shovild not arrive in time 
 for him to go." 
 
 " To go where ? What does he intend ? " 
 
 " He is full of great schemes. I do not know, 
 of course, anything of him except what I have 
 picked up from his communicativeness ; but you 
 would suppose him a duke from his talk. He 
 speaks of his old manor-house, — I should know 
 it by sight now, — and says he intends to repur- 
 chase it and be a great man again. He is con- 
 stantly inviting me to share his new splendors. 
 Really, his pictures of hfe in England will quite 
 spoil me for another winter of cooling my heels 
 in this dismal place, with a scalp on my head 
 and a hundred Sioux looking at it hungrily." 
 
 " He must be deranged by his troubles. I am 
 sure he has no basis for any hopes in England. 
 Sizzum stripped him. He has alienated his 
 friends at home. His daughter is his only friend 
 and guardian, except ourselves." 
 
 " He sprang up when he saw you coming, and 
 was frantic with joy, — not for his daughter's 
 safety, but because he could start with the train 
 to-morrow. I suppose she is a tested traveller 
 by this time." 
 
 " As tlioroughly as any man on the plains."
 
 260 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " She can go very comfortably in the train. 
 Two or three soldiers' ^vives go. Females, I be< 
 lieve ; at least their toggery alleges the softer sex, 
 "whatever their looks and voices do." 
 
 " The chance is clearly not to be lost. I do 
 not like to part with my fascinating comrade. It 
 was poetry to camp with such a woman. Travel 
 will seem stale henceforth. I wish we could 
 keep her, for Brent's sake." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! Pathie looks very doubtful. 
 You must tell me your story more fully after 
 supper." 
 
 I found Mr. Clitheroe in a panic to be moving. 
 He thanked me in a grand manner for our ser- 
 vices. But he seemed willing to avoid me. He 
 could not forget the pang of his disenchantment 
 from Mormonism. I belonged to the dramatis 
 personcB of a period he would willingly banish. 
 He regarded me with a suspicious look, as if he 
 feared again that my coming would break up 
 new illusions as baseless as the old. He was full 
 of large, vague plans. England now ; he must 
 be back in England again. His daughter must 
 be reinstated in her place. He treated her cold- 
 ly enough ; but still all his thought seemed to be 
 ambition for her. The money Armstrong had 
 given him, too, seemed to increase his confidence 
 in the future. That was wealth for the moment. 
 Other would come.
 
 DKAPETOilAMA. 261 
 
 Miss Clitheroe had yielded to fatigue. I did 
 not see her that night. In fact, after all the 
 wearing anxiety of our trip, I was glad to lie 
 down on a white buffalo-robe, with the Sybaritic 
 luxury of a pair of clean sheets, and show my 
 gratitude to Ruby by twelve hours' solid sleep. 
 
 A drum-beat awaked me next morning. It 
 was not reveille, it was not breakfast, it was not 
 guard mounting. I sprang up, and looked from 
 the window. How odd it seemed to peer from 
 a window, after the unwmdowed wilderness ! 
 
 The four white-hooded wagons of the little 
 homeward train were ready to start. The drum 
 was calling in the escort. The fifty soldiers of 
 Ruby's garrison were grouped about, lending a 
 hand to their luckier comrades, homeward boimd. 
 Ruby was taking leave of his brother officers. 
 Aj-mstrong stood a little apart with his horses. 
 A busy scene, and busier when some vixenish 
 pack-mule shook heels, and scattered the by- 
 standers into that figure known to packers as 
 the Blazing Star. 
 
 Aloof from the crowd, Mr. Clitheroe was strid- 
 ing up and down beside the wagons, with the 
 eager, unobserving tramp of a man concerned 
 with nothing but a morbid purpose of his own. 
 He had bought of some discharged soldier a long 
 military surtout, blue-gray, with a cape. Wear- 
 ing this, he marched to and firo like a sentry.
 
 262 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 His thin, gray hair and long, bifid beard gave 
 him a ghastly look ; and then he trod his beat as 
 if it were a doom, — as if he were a sentinel 
 over his own last evasive hope. 
 
 " Drapetomania ! " I thought, " and a hopeless 
 case." 
 
 A knock at my door, and the brawny corpo- 
 raless summoned me to Miss Clitheroe. 
 
 " We are going," she said. " Take me to 
 him ! " 
 
 Did she love him ? 
 
 I braved Dr. Pathie's displeasure, and led her 
 to the bedside of the lover. 
 
 Brent was still in a stupor. We were alone. 
 
 She stood looking at him a moment. He was 
 breathing, but unconscious ; dead to the outer 
 world and her presence. She stood looking at 
 him, and seeming with her large, solemn eyes to 
 review those scenes of terror and of relief since 
 she had known him. Tears gathered in the 
 brave, quiet eyes. 
 
 Suddenly she stooped and kissed his forehead. 
 Then she passionately kissed his lips. She grew 
 to him as if she would interfuse anew that ichor 
 of love into his being. 
 
 She turned to me, all crimsoned, but self-pos- 
 sessed. 
 
 " I meant you should see me prove my love," 
 she said. " I am proud of myself for it, — proud
 
 DRAPETOMANIA. 263 
 
 of my heart that it can know and love this no- 
 blest and tenderest nature. Tell him so. Tell 
 him it is not gratitude, but love. He will know 
 that I could not stay. My life belongs to my 
 father. Where he goes, I must go. What other 
 friend has he than me ? I go with my father, 
 but here my heart remains. Tell him so. Please 
 let me write to you. You will not forget your 
 comrade. I owe more than life to you. Do let 
 me keep myself in your memory. I dread my 
 life before me. I will keep you informed of my 
 father's plans. And when this dearest one is 
 well again, if he remembers me, tell him I love 
 him, and that I parted from him — so." 
 
 She bent again, and kissed him passionately, — 
 then departed, and her tears were on his cheek.
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 NOBLESSE OBLIfiV 
 
 Brent's stupor lasted many days. Life had 
 been strained to its utmost. Body, brain, heart, 
 all had had exhausting taxes to pay. The realm 
 must rest. 
 
 While his mind slept. Nature was gently renew- 
 ing Mm. Quiet is cure to an untainted life. 
 There was no old fever of discontent in hia 
 brain. He had regrets, but no remorses. Oth- 
 ers had harmed him ; his life had been a sad 
 one ; he had never harmed himself. The thoughts 
 and images tangled in his brain, the " stuff that 
 dreams are made of," were of happy omen. No 
 Stygian fancies made his trance unrest. Life did 
 not struggle for recovery that it might plunge 
 again into base or foiil pursuits, or the scuffles 
 of selfishness. A man whose life is for others is 
 safe from selfish disappointment when he is com- 
 manded to stand aside and be naught for a 
 time. 
 
 I knew the images that hovered about my 
 sleeping friend's mind, for I knew the thouglits
 
 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 265 
 
 that were the comrades of his waking hfe. His 
 memory was crowded full of sights and sounds 
 of beauty, and those thoughts that are the emana- 
 tions of fair visions and sweet tones, and dwell 
 unuttered poetry in the soul. I knew how, long 
 ago in childhood, he had made Nature friend, 
 and found his earUest comrades among flowers 
 and birds. I knew, for he had been my teacher, 
 how, when youth first looked widely forth for vis- 
 ions of the Infinite, he had learned to compre- 
 hend, day after day, night after night, the large 
 delight of heaven ; whether the busy heaven, 
 when the golden sun makes our sky blue above 
 us, and reveals on earth the facts that we must 
 deal with and by which we must be taught our 
 laws, or the quiet heaven of night, with its 
 starry tokens of grander fruition, when we shall 
 live for grander days. Sky and clouds, sun and 
 stars, brooks and rivers, forests and hills, waves 
 and winds, — these had received him to their 
 sweet companionship, as his mind could grad- 
 ually grasp the larger conceptions of beauty. 
 Ajid so, when his time came to perceive the 
 higher significance of Art, as man's rudimentary 
 efforts toward creations diviner and more orderly 
 than those of earth, he had gone to Art with the 
 unerring eye and interpreting love of a fresh 
 soul, schooled by Nature only, blind to Art's 
 baser fancies, and hospitable to its holier dreams. 
 
 12
 
 266 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 No Ugly visions could visit the uncontrolled hours 
 of a brain so stored. His trance was peace. 
 
 More than peace ; for as I watched his quiet 
 face, I knew that his spirit was conscious of a 
 spiritual presence, and Love was hovering over 
 him, a healing element. 
 
 At last he waked. He threw volition into the 
 scale of recovery. He was well in a trice. 
 
 Captain Ruby and Doctor Pathic were disposed 
 to growl at the rapidity of Brent's cure. 
 
 " I have half a mind to turn military despot, 
 and arrest you," said Ruby. " A pair of muffs, 
 even, would be welcome in the winter at Lara- 
 mie. You have made a wretched bungle of it, 
 Pathie. Why did n't you mend your man delib- 
 erately, a muscle a week, a nerve a month, and 
 so make it a six months' job ? " 
 
 " He took the matter out of my hands, and 
 mended himself. There 's cool, patient, deter- 
 mined vitahty in him, enough to set up a legion, 
 or father a race. Which is it, Mr. Wade, words 
 to say or duties to do, that has made him con- 
 dense his being on recovery ? " 
 
 " Both, I believe. He is mature now, and 
 wants, no doubt, to be at his business of saying 
 and doing." 
 
 " And loving," said Ruby. 
 
 '■ Ay," said Pathie. " That has had more to 
 do with it. I hope he will overtake and win, for
 
 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 267 
 
 I love the boy. I keep my oldish heart pretty 
 well locked against strangers ; but there is a 
 warm cell in it, and in that cell he has, sleeping 
 and waking, made himself a home." 
 
 " Ah, Doctor," said Ruby, " you and I, for 
 want of women to love, have to content ourselves 
 with poetic rovers like Brent. He and Biddulph 
 were balls, operas, champagne on tap, new novels, 
 flirtations, and cigars to me last winter." 
 
 We were smoking our pipes on the veranda 
 one warm November day, when this conversation 
 happened. 
 
 I had not quite forgotten the Barrownight, as 
 Jake Shamberlain pronounced him, nor quite 
 forgotten, in grave cares, my fancy that his stay 
 in Utah was for Miss Clitheroe's sake. 
 
 I was hardly surprised when, that very even- 
 ing, a bronzed traveller, face many shades darker 
 than hair and beard, rode up to the post with a 
 Delaware Indian, and was hailed by Ruby as 
 Biddulph. 
 
 " We were talking of you not an hour ago," 
 said Ruby, greeting him. " Wishing you would 
 come to make last winter's party complete. 
 Brent is here, wounded." 
 
 "Has he a lady with him?" said the new- 
 comer. His voice and manner were manly and 
 frank, — a chivalrous fellow, one of us, one of 
 the comradry of knights errant.
 
 268 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " Mr. Wade will give an account of her." 
 
 "Come in to Brent," said I, " and we will talk 
 matters over." 
 
 Ruby, model host, cleared the way for a parley 
 whose interest he divined. 
 
 "I will see after your horses. Don't lose your 
 appetite for supper. We have potatoes ! " 
 
 "Potatoes!!" cried Biddulph. "Not I!" 
 
 "Yes, and flapjacks and molasses, ready in 
 half an hour." 
 
 " Flapjacks and molasses ! Potatoes and flap- 
 jacks ! — Yes, and molasses!" Biddulph again 
 exclaimed. " Jewel of a Ruby ! This is the 
 Ossa on Pelion of g-ourmandise. How under- 
 done and overdone all the banquets of civiliza- 
 tion seem ! I charge thee. Ruby, when the pota- 
 toes and the flapjacks and molasses are ready, 
 that thou peal a jubilee upon the bell. Now, 
 Mr. Wade, let me see this wounded friend, and 
 hear and tell." 
 
 The two gentlemen met with cordiality. 
 Brent, I believe, had never identified Miss Cli- 
 theroe with the lady Biddulph fled from, and 
 I had never mentioned my suspicions. 
 
 " Not one word, John ! " said the Briton, 
 " until I know what you have done with Ellen 
 Chtheroe. Is she safe ? " 
 
 Brent comprehended the Baronet's heart and 
 mind at the word. The other, I think, saw as
 
 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 269 
 
 plainly ou Brent's face that he was a lover, 
 and perhaps the more fortunate one. These two 
 loyal men drew closer at this, as wholly loyal 
 souls will do, for all the pang of knowing that 
 one has loved and lost. 
 
 Brent told our story in brief. 
 
 " I divined that you were one of the pair who 
 had started on the rescue. I could not mistake 
 you, man and horse and dress, from the Mor- 
 mon's description." 
 
 " You saw Sizzum, then ? " 
 
 " I saw his dead body." 
 
 " What ? Dead ! " A sense of relief, that the 
 world had one tempter the less, passed through 
 our minds. 
 
 "Yes, shot dead, just where the "Wasatch 
 Mountains open, and there is that wonderful 
 view of Salt Lake City. His Nemesis met him 
 there. I heard the shot fired, as I was riding 
 oiit to meet the train, and saw him fall ! " 
 
 " Who shot him, of the many that had a 
 right ? " 
 
 " As mild a mannered man as ever shuddered 
 at the crack of an egg-shell." 
 
 " "Vendetta for woman-stealing ? " 
 
 " Wife-stealing. The man was a poor music- 
 teacher, with a pretty spouse in Quincy, Illinois. 
 He had told me his own story, without proclaim- 
 ing his purpose, though I conjectured it. The
 
 270 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 pretty spouse grew tired of poverty and five chil- 
 dren. She went off with Sizzum. The music- 
 master hired himself to a drover, named Arm- 
 strong, and plodded out to Utah. When he got 
 there, he found Sizzum gone. He turned hun- 
 ter. I met him in the mountains, a crack shot. 
 He waited his time, ambushed the train, and shot 
 Sizzum dead, as he first caught sight of the 
 VaUey." 
 
 "A thought of poetry in his justice. What 
 then ? " 
 
 " I could see him creeping away among the 
 rocks, while the Mormons were getting their 
 rifles. They opened fire, a hundred of them. 
 Eing, ping ! the balls tapped all about him. He 
 was just clear, just springing over a little ridge 
 of shelter, when a shot struck him. He flung 
 out his arms in an attitude of imprecation, and 
 fell over the rocks. Dead, and doubly dead from 
 the fall." 
 
 " Our two evil forces are erased from the 
 world. Wade," said Brent. 
 
 " May it be good omen for coming difficulties ! 
 But how did you learn of the events at Port 
 Bridger ? " I asked the Baronet. 
 
 " The Lancashire people in the train all took 
 an interest in the Clitheroes. They knew from 
 Sizzum what happened when he followed you, 
 and your purpose to give chase. I knew John
 
 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 271 
 
 Brent well enough to believe that he would 
 achieve the rescue. Happy fellow ! I forgive 
 you, John ; hard it is, but I forgive you for step- 
 ping in before me, I was waiting there in Utah 
 to do what I could for my old love and my old 
 friend. I should like to have had a bullet in my 
 arm in the cause ; but the result is good, whether 
 I gain or lose." 
 
 " I never thought of you, Biron. In fact, from 
 the moment I saw her, I thought of no one 
 else." 
 
 " Yes ; that is her power. We were old neigh- 
 bors in Lancashire. My father bought the old 
 Hall after Mr. Clitheroe's disasters. The disap- 
 pearance and the mysterious reappearance of 
 the old gentleman and his beautiful daughter 
 were the romance of the region. No one knew 
 where they had been. My father was dead. My 
 mother tried to befriend them. But the old gen- 
 tleman was soured and disappointed. He could 
 not forgive us for inhabiting the old mansion of 
 his happier days. God knows how gladly I would 
 have reinstated him there. But she could not 
 love me ; so I came away, and we looked up Lug- 
 gerncl Springs and the Alley together, John, to 
 give you a chance to snatch my destiny away 
 from me." 
 
 Brent, in his weakness, had no answer to 
 make, except to give his hand to this gentle rival.
 
 272 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " How did you learu of their Mormon error ? " 
 I asked. 
 
 " My mother wrote me. She loves Miss Clithe- 
 roe like a daughter. She pities the father. His 
 wife was her friend. A genial, lovable man he 
 was, she says, until, after his losses, people whom 
 he had aided turned and accused him of reck- 
 lessness and dishonesty, — a charge as false and 
 cruel as could be made. My mother wrote, told 
 me of Sizzum's success in Clitheroe, and of our 
 friends' departure. She ordered me, on my 
 obedience, never to come back to England until 
 I could tell her that Ellen was safe out of Siz- 
 zum's power. She had gone to hear him preach, 
 and abhorred him. I received her letter after we 
 had parted, John, and I camped with Jake Sham- 
 berlain, waiting for the train. What I could 
 have done, I do not know ; but my life was Miss 
 Clitheroe's." 
 
 How easy his chivalry seemed to this noble 
 fellow! "■ Noblesse oblig-e''; but the obligation 
 was no burden. 
 
 " You are a stanch friend, Biron," said Brent. 
 " She may need you yet." 
 
 " Yes," said he ; " Christian England is a sav- 
 age, cruel as any of these brutes she has encoun- 
 tered here, to a beautiful girl with a helpless, 
 crazy father. When can you travel, John ? " 
 
 "Nearly a month I have been here fighting
 
 NOBLESSE OBLIGE. 273 
 
 death and grasping at life. Give me two days 
 more to find a horse and ride about a little, and 
 we are off." 
 
 "Armstrong, fine old fellow, left the sorrel for 
 you," I said. "■ He is in racing trim now." 
 
 " Capital ! " said Brent. " One Armstrong is 
 a brave weight on the true side of the balance, 
 against an army of pioneers who have gone bar- 
 barous." 
 
 " I have something to show you, John," said 
 Biddulph. " See here. I bought this of a Mor- 
 mon. He had very likely stolen it from Mr. 
 Clitheroe's wagon. It was the only relic I could 
 get of them." 
 
 The very drawing of Clitheroe Hall its former 
 owner had wished to show me at Fort Bridger. 
 An able sketch of a thoroughly English house. 
 If England were sunk in the sea, and its whole 
 history perished, English life, society, and man- 
 ners could be reconstructed from the inspection 
 of such a drawing, as a geologist recalls an aeon 
 from a trilobite. I did not wonder that it had 
 been heart-breaking to quit the shelter of that 
 grand old roof. I fixed the picture in my mind. 
 The time came when that remembrance was 
 precious. 
 
 " Now, Biddulph ! " called Ruby, " supper 
 waits. Potatoes ! Flapjacks and molasses ! " 
 
 " They shall be a part of me instantly." 
 
 12* K
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 HAM. 
 
 Two days Biddulph solaced himself on those 
 rare luxuries of Ruby's menage; the thkd, we 
 started. 
 
 Ruby and the surgeon rode with us a score of 
 miles. It was hard to say good-bye. We were 
 grateful, and they were sorry. 
 
 " What can we do for you, Ruby ? " 
 
 " Raze Laramie, abolish the plains, level the 
 Rockys, nullify the Sioux, and disband the 
 American army." 
 
 " What can we do for you, Doctor ? " 
 
 " Find me a wife, box her up so that no one 
 will stop her in transitu, mark Simeon Pathie, 
 M. D., U. S. A., and ship to Fort Vancouver, 
 Oregon, where I shall be stationed next summer. 
 Your English lady in half a day has spoiled my 
 philosophy of a life." 
 
 " Good-bye and good luck ! " 
 
 It was late travelling througn that houseless 
 waste. Deep snow already blanched the Black 
 HiUs, and Laramie Peak, their chief. Mr. Bier-
 
 HAIL 275 
 
 stadt, ill his fine picture iii this year's Academy, 
 has shown them as they are in the mellow days 
 of summer. Now, cold and stern, they warned 
 us to hasten on. 
 
 We did hasten. We crowded through the buf- 
 falo ; we crossed and recrossed the Platte, already 
 curdling with winter ; we dashed over the prairies 
 of Kansas, blackened by fire and whitened by 
 snow, but then unstained by any peaceful settler's 
 blood. 
 
 Jake Shamberlain, returning with his party, 
 met us on the way. 
 
 " I passed the train with the young woman 
 and her father," said he. " We camped together 
 one night, and bein' as I was a friend of your 'n, 
 she give me a talk. Pooty tall talkin' 't wuz, 
 and I wuz teched in a new spot. I 've felt mean 
 as muck ever sence she opened to me on religion, 
 and when I git home I 'm goan to swing clear of 
 the Church, ef I ken cut clear, and emigrate to 
 Oregon. So, Barrownight, next time you come 
 out, you '11 find me on a claim there, out to the 
 Willamette or the Umpqua, just as much like 
 a gentleman's park in England as one grasshop- 
 per is to another, only they hain't got no such 
 mountains to England as I '11 show you thar." 
 
 " Well, Jake, we '11 try to pay you our re- 
 spects." 
 
 We hastened on. Wliy pause for our adven-
 
 276 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 tiires ? They were but episodes along our new 
 gallop of three. This time it was not restless, 
 anxious gallop. We had no doubt but that in 
 good time we should overtake our friends, in 
 regions where men are not shot along the right 
 arm when they protect insulted dames. 
 
 Brent was himself agahi. We rode hard. 
 Biddulph was as fine a fellow as my grandmother 
 England has mothered. Find an Englishman 
 vital enough to be a Come-outer, and you have 
 found a man worthy to be the peer of an Ameri- 
 can with Yankee education. Western scope, and 
 California irrepressibility. 
 
 Whiter chased us close. Often we woke at 
 night, and found our bivouac sheeted with cold 
 snow, — a cool sheet, but luckily outside our 
 warm blankets. It was full December when the 
 plains left us, fell back, and beached us upon the 
 outer edge of civilization, at Independence, Mis- 
 souri. 
 
 The muddy Missouri was running dregs. 
 Steamboats were tired of skipping from sand-bar 
 to sand-bar. Engineer had reported to Captain, 
 that " Kangaroo No. 5 would bust, if he did n't 
 stop trying to make her lift herself over the 
 damp country by her braces." No more steam- 
 boating on the yellow ditch until there was a 
 rise ; until the Platte sent down sand three and 
 water one, or the Yellowstone mud three and
 
 water one, or the Missouri proper grit three and 
 water one. We must travel by land to St. Louis 
 and railroads. 
 
 We could go with our horses as fast as the 
 stage-coaches. So we sold our pack beasts, and 
 started to continue our gallop of three across 
 Missouri. 
 
 Half-way across, we stopped one evening at the 
 mean best tavern in a mean town, — a frowzy 
 county town, with a dusty public square, a boxy 
 church, and a spittley court-house. 
 
 Fit entertainment for beast the tavern offered. 
 We saw our horses stabled, and had our supper. 
 
 " Shall we go into the Spittoon ? " said Bid- 
 dulph. 
 
 " Certainly," said Brent. " The bar-room — I 
 am sorry to hear you speak of it with foreign 
 prejudice — is an institution, and merits study. 
 Argee, upon the which ^tlie bar-room is based, is 
 also an institution." 
 
 " Well, I came to study American institutions. 
 Let us go in and take a whiff of disgust." 
 
 Fit entertainment for brute the bar-room of- 
 fered. In that club-room we found the brute 
 class drinking, swearing, spitting, squabbling 
 over the price of hemp and the price of "nig- 
 gers," and talking what it called " politics." 
 
 One tall, truculent Pike, the loudest of all that 
 blatant crew, seemed to Brent apd myself an old
 
 278 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 acquaintance. We had seen him or his double 
 somewhere. But neither of us could fit him with 
 a pedestal in our long gallery of memory. Saints 
 one takes pains to remember, and theu- scenes ; 
 but satyrs one endeavors to lose. 
 
 " Have you had enough of the Spittoon ? " I 
 asked Biddulph. " Shall we go up ? They 've 
 put us all three in the same room ; but bivouacs 
 in the same big room — Out-Doors — are wliat 
 we are best used to." 
 
 Two and a half beds, one broken-backed chair, 
 a wash-stand decked with an ancient fringed 
 towel and an abandoned tooth-brush, one torn 
 slipper, and a stove-pipe hole, furnished our 
 bedchamber. 
 
 We were about to cast lots for the half-bed, when 
 we heard two men enter the next room. The 
 partition was only paper pasted over lath, and 
 cut up as if a Border Ruffian member of Congress 
 had practised at it with a bowie-knife before a 
 street-fight. Every word of our neighbors came 
 to us. They were talking of a slave bargain. I 
 eliminate their oaths, though such filtration does 
 them injustice. 
 
 "Eight hundred dollars," said the first speak- 
 er, and his voice startled us as if a dead man we 
 knew had spoken. " Eight hundred, — that 's - 
 the top of my pile fur that boy. Ef he warn't so 
 old and hadn't one eye poked out, I agree lie 'd 
 be wuth a heap more."
 
 HAxM. 279 
 
 " Waal, a trade 's a trade. I '11 take yer 
 stump. Count out yer dimes, and I '11 fill out a 
 blank bill of sale. Murker, the boy 's yourn." 
 
 "Mui-ker!" — we both started at the name. 
 This was the satyr we had observed in the bar- 
 room. Had Fulano's victim crept from under 
 his cairn in Luggernel Alley, and chased us to 
 take flesh here and harm us again. Such a 
 superstitious thought crossed my mind. 
 
 The likeness — look, voice, and name — was 
 presently accounted for. 
 
 " You 're lookin' fur yer brother out from 
 Sacramenter, 'bout now, I reckon," said the 
 trader. 
 
 " He wuz comin' cross lots with a man named 
 Larrap, a pardener of his'u. Like enough they've 
 stayed over winter in Salt Lake. They oughter 
 rake down a most a mountainious pile thar." 
 
 " Mormons is flush and sarcy with their dimes 
 sence the emigration. Now thar's yer bill of 
 sale, all right." 
 
 " And thar 's yer money, all right." 
 
 " That are 's wut I call a screechin' good price 
 fur an old one-eyed nigger. Fourteen hundred 
 dollars, — an all-fired price." 
 
 " Eight hundred, you mean." 
 
 " No ; fourteen. Yer see, you 're not up ter 
 taime on the nigger question. I know 'em like a 
 church-steeple. Wlicn I bought that are boy,
 
 280 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 now comin' three year, I seed he wuz a sprightly 
 nigger, one er yer ambitious sort, what would be 
 mighty apt to git fractious, an' be makin' tracks, 
 onless I got a holt on him. So sez I to him, 
 ' Ham, you 're a sprightly nigger, one of the raal 
 ambitious sort, now aincher ? ' He allowed he 
 warnt nothin' else. ' Waal,' sez I, ' Ham, how 'd 
 you like to buy yerself, an' be a free nigger, an' 
 hev a house of yer own, an' a woman of yer own, 
 all jess like white folks ? ' ' Lor,' sez he, ' Massa, 
 I 'd like it a heap.' ' Waal,' sez I, ' you jess 
 scrabble round an' raise me seven hundred dol- 
 lars, an' I '11 sell you to yerself, an' cheap at that.' 
 So yer see he began to pay up, an' I got a holt 
 on him. He 's a handy nigger, an' a likely 
 nigger, an' a pop'lar nigger. He ken play on 
 ther fiddle like taime, — pooty nigh a minstril is 
 that are nigger. He ken cut hair an' fry a beef- 
 steak with ayry man. He ken drive team, an' 
 do a little j'iner work, an' shoe a mule when thar 
 ain't no reg'lar blacksmith round. He made 
 these yer boots, an' reg'lar stompers they is. 
 He 's one er them chirrupy, smilin' niggers, 
 with white teeth an' genteel manners, what crit- 
 turs an' foaks nat'rally takes to. Waal, he picked 
 up the bits and quarters right smart. He 's ben 
 at it, lammin' ahead raal ambitious, for 'bou.t 
 three year. Last Sunday, after church, he pinted 
 up the last ten of the six hundred. So I allowed
 
 riAZvi. 281 
 
 't waz. coiae Lime to sell him, fie wuz gettin' 
 his bead drawed, an' his idees sot on freedom 
 very onhealthy. I did n't like to disapp'int him 
 to ther last ; so I allowed 't wuz jest as well to 
 let you hev him cheap to go down River. That 's 
 how to work them fractious runaway niggers. 
 That are 's my patent. You ken hev it for 
 nothin'. Haw ! haw ! " 
 
 " Haw, haw, haw ! You are one er ther boys. 
 I 'm diim sorry that are trick can't be did twicet 
 on the same nigger. I reckon he knows too 
 much for that. Waal, s'pose we walk round to 
 the calaboose, 'fore we go to bed, an' see ef he 's 
 chained up all right." 
 
 They went out. 
 
 Biddulph spoke first. 
 
 " Shame ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Brent ; " do you wonder that we 
 have to run away to the Rockys and spend our 
 indignation on grizzly s ? " 
 
 " What are we going to do now ? " 
 
 " Try to abolish slavery in Ham's case. Come ; 
 we '11 go buy him a file." 
 
 " We seem to have business with the Murker 
 family," said I. 
 
 " A hard lot they are. Representative brutes ! " 
 
 " I am getting a knowledge of all classes on 
 your continent," said Biddulph. " Some I likp 
 better than others ! "
 
 282 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " Don't bo too harsh on us malecontents for the 
 sin of slavery. It is an ancestral taint. We 
 shall burn it out before many decades." 
 
 " You had better, or it will set your own 
 house on fire." 
 
 It was late as we walked along the streets, 
 channels of fever and ague now frozen up for the 
 winter. We saw a light through a shop door, 
 and hammered stoutly for admission. 
 
 A clerk, long-haired and frowzy, opened un- 
 graciously. In the back shop were three others, 
 also long-haired and frowzy, dealing cards and 
 drinking a dark compost from tumblers. 
 
 "Port wine," whispered Brent. "Fine Old 
 London Dock Port is the favorite beverage, when 
 the editor, the lawyer, the apothecary, and the 
 merchant meet to play euchre in ]!tIissouri." 
 
 We bought our files from the surly clerk, and 
 made for the calaboose. It was a stout log struc- 
 ture, with grated windows. At one of these, by 
 the low moonlight, we saw a negro. It was cold 
 and late. Nobody was near. We hailed the man. 
 
 " Ham." 
 
 " Tliat 's me, Massa." 
 
 " You 're sold to Murker, to go south to-mor- 
 row morning. If you want to get free, catch ! " 
 
 Brent tossed him up the files. 
 
 " Catch again! " said Biddulph, and up went 
 a rattling purse, England's subsidy.
 
 HAM. 
 
 283 
 
 Ham's white teeth and genteel manners ap- 
 peared at once. He grinned, and whispered 
 thanks. 
 
 " Is that all we can do ? " asked the Baronet, 
 as we walked off. 
 
 "Yes," said Brent, taking a nasal tone. 
 "Ham's a pop'lar nigger, a handy nigger, one 
 er your raal ambitious sort. He ken cut hair, 
 fry a beefsteak, and play on the fiddle like a 
 minstril. He ken shoe a mule, drive a team, do 
 a Httle j'iner work, and make stompers. Yes, 
 Biddulph, trust him to gnaw himself free with 
 that Connecticut rat-tail." 
 
 " Ham against Japhet ; I hope he '11 win." 
 
 " Now," said Brent, " that we 've put in action 
 Christ's Golden Rule, Jefferson's Declaration of 
 Independence, and All-the-wisdom's Preamble to 
 the Constitution, we can sleep the sleep of well- 
 doers, if we have two man-stealers — and one 
 the brother of a murderer — only papered off 
 from us."
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 FULANO'S BLOOD-STAIN. 
 
 " What a horse beyond all horses yours is ! " 
 said Biddulph to me next morning, as we rode 
 along cheerily through the fresh, frosty air of 
 December. " I think, when your continent gets 
 to its finality in horse-flesh, you will beat our 
 island." 
 
 " Think what training such a trip is ! This 
 comrade of mine has come two thousand miles 
 with me, — big thought, eh ! — and he freshens 
 up with the ozone of this morning, as if he had 
 been in the stable a week, champing asphodel." 
 
 Fulano felt my commendation. He became 
 electrified. He stirred under me. I gave him 
 rein. He shook himself out, and began to recite 
 Ms accomplishments. 
 
 Whatever gait he had in his legs together, or 
 portion of a leap in either pair of them ; what- 
 ever gesticulations he considered graceful, with 
 toes in the air before, or heels in the air behind ; 
 whatever serpentine writhe or sinewy bend of 
 the body, whatever curve of the proud neck.
 
 FULANO'S BLOOD-STAIN. 285 
 
 fling of the nead, signal of the ear, toss of the 
 mane, whisk of the tail, he knew, — all these he 
 repeated, to remind me what a horse he was, and 
 justify my praise. 
 
 What a HORSE, indeed ! 
 
 How far away from him every lubberly road- 
 ster, every hack that endures the holidays of a 
 tailor, every grandpapa's cob, every sloucher in a 
 sulky ! Of other race and other heart was this 
 steed, both gentle and proud. He was still able 
 to be the better half of a knight-errant when a 
 charger worth a kingdom must be had, — when 
 Love needed his mighty alliance in the battle 
 with Brutality. He was willing now, in piping- 
 times of peace, to dance along his way, a gay 
 comrade to the same knight-errant, riding home- 
 ward a quiet gentleman, with armor doffed and 
 unsuspecting further war. 
 
 What sport we had together that morning ! 
 We were drawing near the end of our journey. 
 Not that that was to part us ! No, he was to be 
 my companion still. I had a vision of him in a 
 paddock, with a fine young fellow, not unlike 
 myself, patting his head, while an oldish fellow, 
 not unlike myself, in fact very me with another 
 quarter of a century on my head, told the story 
 of the Gallop of Three and the wild charge 
 down Luggernel Alley to that unwearying audi- 
 tor, while a lady, very like my ideal of a wife,
 
 286 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 stood by and thrilled again to the tale. Such a 
 vision I had of Fulano's future. 
 
 But now that our journey was ending, he and 
 I were willing, on this exhilarating winter's day, 
 to talk it over. What had he gained by the 
 chances by flood and field we had encountered 
 together ? 
 
 " I have not gone," Pulano notified me, " two 
 thousand miles, since my lonely, riderless days 
 among the herds of Gerriau, since our first meet- 
 ing on the prairie and my leap through the loop 
 of Jose's lasso, — I have not gone my leagues of 
 continent for nothing. 
 
 " See what lessons I have learnt, thanks to 
 you, my schoolmaster ! This is my light step for 
 heavy sand; tliis is my cautious step over peb- 
 bles ; my high step over boulders ; my easy, un- 
 wasteful travelling gait ; my sudden stop without 
 unseating my rider ; so I swerve without shying ; 
 and so I spring mto top speed without a strain. 
 Your lady-love could canter me ; your baby could 
 walk me ; because I please to be your friend, my 
 friend. But you know me ; I am the untam- 
 able still, except by love." 
 
 And then he rehearsed the gaits he had studied 
 from the creatures on the plains. 
 
 " Look, upper half of the Centaur," he said, 
 in the Centaur language ; "see how an antelope 
 goes ! "
 
 FULANO'S BLOOD-STAIN. 287 
 
 He doubled his legs under him and went off 
 in high, jerky leaps, twice his length every one. 
 
 " Look ! A bufifalo ! " 
 
 He lumbered along, shoulders low, head han- 
 dled like a battering-ram, and tail stiif out like a 
 steering-oar. 
 
 " Here 's a gray wolf." 
 
 And he shambled forward in a loose-jointed 
 canter, looking back furtively, like a thief, sorry 
 he didn 't stop to steal the other goose, but ex- 
 pecting Stop thief! every minute. 
 
 " And so go I, Don Fulano, the Indomitable, a 
 chieftain of the chiefest race below the man, — 
 so go I when walk, pace, gallop, run, leap, ca- 
 reer, tread space and time out of being, to show 
 the other half of the Centaurship what my half 
 can do for the love of his." 
 
 " Magnificent ! " applauded Biddulph at this 
 display. 
 
 " His coquetries are as beautiful as a wo- 
 man's," said Brent. " One whose sweet wiles 
 are nature, not artifice." 
 
 And I — but lately trained to believe that a 
 woman may have the myriad charm of coy with- 
 drawal, and yet not be the traitress youth learns 
 from ancient cynics to fear — accepted the com- 
 parison. 
 
 Ah, peerless Fulano ! that was our last love- 
 passage !
 
 288 JOHN BBENT. 
 
 The day, after the crisp frostmess of its begin- 
 ning, was a belated day of Indian summer ; mild 
 as the golden mornings of that calm, luxurious 
 time. We stopped to noon in a sunny spot of 
 open pasture near a wide muddy slough of the 
 Missouri. This reservoir for the brewage of 
 shakes for Pikes had been refilled in some autumn 
 rise of the river, and lay a great stagnant lake 
 along the road-side, a mile or so long, two hundred 
 yards broad. Not very exhilarating tipple, but 
 still water ; the horses would not disdain it, 
 after their education on the plains ; we could qual- 
 ify it with argee from our flasks, and ice it with 
 the little films of ice unmelted along the pool's 
 edges. We, were fortified with a bag of corn for 
 the horses, and a cold chicken for the men. 
 
 We camped by a fallen cottonwood near the 
 slough. The atmosphere was hopeful. We pic- 
 nicked merrily, men and beasts. " Three gentle- 
 men at once" over a chicken soon dissipated this 
 and its trimmings. We lighted the tranquil cal- 
 umet, and lounged, watching our horses at their 
 corn. 
 
 Presently we began to fancy we heard, then to 
 think we heard, at last to be sure we heard the 
 baying of hounds through the mild, golden air. 
 
 " Tally-ho ! " cried Biddulph, " what a day for 
 a fox-hunt ! This haze will make the scent lie 
 almost as well as the clouds."
 
 FULANO'S BLOOD-STADT. 289 
 
 " Music ! Music ! " cried he again, spring- 
 ing up, as the sound, increasing, rose and fell 
 along the peaceful air that lay on earth so lov 
 ingiy. 
 
 " Music, if it were in Merrie England, where 
 the hunt are gentlemen. A cursed uproar here, 
 where the hunt are man-stealers," said Brent. 
 
 " No," said Biddulph. " Those are fables of 
 the old, barbarous days of the Maroons. I can't 
 believe in dogs after men, until I see it." 
 
 " I 'm afraid it 's our friend Ham they are af- 
 ter. This would be his line of escape." 
 
 At the word, a rustling in the bushes along 
 the slough, and Ham burst through. He turned 
 to run. We shouted. He knew us, and flung 
 himself, livid with terror and panting with flight, 
 on the ground at our feet, — the "pop'lar nig- 
 ger " ! 
 
 " Massa ! " he gasped. " Dey 's gone sot 
 de dogs on me. What '11 1 do ! " 
 
 " Can you swim," said I, — for to me he was 
 kneeling. 
 
 " No, Massa ; or I 'd been across thisyer sloo 
 fore dis." 
 
 " Can you ride ! " 
 
 " Reck'n I kin, Massa." 
 
 A burst of baying from the hounds. 
 
 The black shook with terror. 
 
 I sprang to Fulano. " Work for you, old 
 13 s
 
 290 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 boy ! " said I to him, as I flung the snaffle over 
 his head. 
 
 " Take mine ! " said ray two friends at a 
 breath. 
 
 " No ; Fulano understands this business. Chase 
 or flight, all one to him, so he baffles the Brutes." 
 
 Fulano neighed and beat the ground with 
 eager hoofs as I buckled the bridle. 
 
 " Can't we show fight ? " said Biddulph. 
 
 " There '11 be a dozen on the hunt. It is one 
 of the entertainments hereabouts. Besides, they 
 would raise the posse upon us. You forget 
 we 're in a Slave State, an enemy's country." 
 
 I led Fulano to the brink. He stood motion- 
 less, eying me, just as he eyed me in that terri- 
 ble pause in Luggernel Alley. 
 
 " Here, Ham, up with you ! Put across the 
 slough. He swims like an alligator. Then make 
 for the north star, and leave the horse for Mr. 
 Richard Wade, at the Tremont House, Chicago. 
 Treat him like a brother, Ham ! " 
 
 " Lor bress you, Massa ! I will dat." 
 
 He vaulted up, like " a sprightly nigger, one 
 of the raal ambitious sort." 
 
 The baying came nearer, nearer, ringing sweetly 
 through the golden quiet of noon. 
 
 I launched Fulano with an urgent whisper. 
 
 Two hundred yards to swim ! and then all 
 clear to Freedom !
 
 FULANO'S BLOOD-STAIN. 291 
 
 Pulano splashed in and took deep water mag- 
 nificently. 
 
 What a sight it is to see a noble horse nobly 
 breast the flood, — to see his shoulders thrust 
 aside the stream, his breath come quick, his eyes 
 flash, his haunches lift, his wake widen after 
 him ! 
 
 And then — Act 2 — how grand it is to see 
 him paw and struggle up with might and main 
 upon the farther bank, — to see him rise, all 
 glossy and reeking, shake himself, and, with 
 a snort, go galloping free and away ! Aha ! a 
 sight to be seen ! 
 
 We stood watching Act 1. The fugitive was 
 half-way across. The baying came closer, closer 
 on his trail. 
 
 Two thirds across. 
 
 The baying ceased. The whole pack drew a 
 long wail. 
 
 " They see him," said Biddulph. 
 
 Almost across ! A dozen more plunges, Fu- 
 lano ! 
 
 A crowd of armed men on horseback dashed 
 up to the bank two hundred yards above us. It 
 was open where they halted. They could not 
 see us among the bushes on the edge of the 
 slough. 
 
 One of them — it was Murker — sprang from 
 his saddle. He pointed his rifle quick and
 
 292 JOHN BEENT. 
 
 steady. Horse and man, the fugitives, were 
 close to the bank and the thicket of safety. 
 
 Ping ! 
 
 Almost over, as the rifle cracked. Ham had 
 turned at the sound of his pursuers crashing 
 through the buslies. Fulano swam high. He 
 bore a proud head aloft, conscious of his brave 
 duty. It was but a moment since he had dashed 
 away, and the long lines of his wake still rippled 
 against tlie hither bank. 
 
 We heard the bullet sing. It missed the man 
 as he turned. It struck Fulano. Blood spirted 
 from a great artery. He floundered forward. 
 
 Ham caught the bushes on the bank, pulled 
 himself ashore, and clutched for the bridle. 
 
 Poor Fulano ! He flung his head up and 
 pawed the surface with a great spasm. He 
 screamed a death-scream, like that terrible cry of 
 anguish of his comrade martyred in the old he- 
 roic cause in Luggernel Alley. We could see 
 his agonized eye turn back in the socket, sending 
 toward us a glance of farewell. 
 
 Noble horse ! again a saviour. He yielded and 
 sank slowly away into that base ditch. 
 
 But Ham, was he safe ? He had disappeared 
 in the thicket. His pursuers called the hounds 
 and galloped off to chase him round the slough. 
 
 Ham was safe. He got off to freedom. From 
 his refuge in Chicago he writes me that he is
 
 FULANO'S BLOOD-STAIN. 293 
 
 "pop'lar" ; that he has "sot up a Livery Insti- 
 tootion, and has a most a bewterful black colt 
 a gTowin' up fur me." 
 
 Ham was saved; but Fulano gone. Dead 
 by Murker's rifle. The brother had strangely 
 avenged his brother, trampled to death in the far- 
 away canon of the Rocky Mountains. Strange 
 Nemesis for a guiltless crime ! That blood-stain 
 for a righteous execution clung to him. Only 
 his own blood-shedding could cleanse him. 
 
 We three on the bank looked at each other for- 
 lornly. The Horse, our Hero, had passed away 
 from the scene, a marytr. 
 
 We turned to our journey with premonitions 
 of sorrowful ill.
 
 CHAPTER XXVIIT. 
 
 short's cut-off. 
 
 " Dear Mr. Wade : — 
 " We are hastening on. I can write you but 
 one word. Our journey has been prosperous. 
 Mr. Armstrong is very kind. My dear father, 
 I fear, is shattered out of all steadiness. God 
 guard him, and guide me ! My undying love 
 to your friend. 
 
 " Your sister, 
 
 " Ellen Clitheroe." 
 
 Armstrong handed us this note at St. Louis. 
 Biddulph, once a sentimental pinkling, now a 
 bronzed man of the wilds, exhibited for this occa- 
 sion only the phenomenon of a brace or so of 
 tears. I loved him for his strong sorrow. 
 
 " It 's not for myself, Wade," he said. " I can 
 stand her loving John, and not knowing that she 
 has me for brother too ; I 'm not of the lacrymose 
 classes ; but this mad error of the father and this 
 hopeless faithfulness of the daughter touches me 
 tenderly. And here we are three weeks or more 
 behind them."
 
 SHORT'S CUT-OFF. 295 
 
 «' Yes," said Ai-mstrong, " full three weeks to 
 the notch ; an ef ayry one of you boys sets any 
 store by 'em, you 'd better be pintin' along their 
 trail afore it gets cold. That 's what I allow. 
 He's onsafe, — the old man is. As fine-hearted 
 a bein' as ever was ; but luck has druv him out 
 of hisself and made a reg'lar gonopli of him." 
 
 " GoNOPH is vernacular for Drapetomaniac, I 
 suppose," said I ; " and a better word it is. Miss 
 Ellen bore the journey well, Armstrong ? " 
 
 " That there young woman is made out of watch- 
 spring. Ther ain't no stop to her. The more 
 you pile on, the springier she gits. She was a 
 mile an hour more to the train comin' on. We 
 did n't have any tlimg ugly happen until we got 
 to the river. We cum down from Independence 
 in the Floatin' Pallis, No. 5. Some er them gam- 
 blin' Pikes on board got a holt on the old man. 
 He 's got his bead drawed on makin' a pile again, 
 and allows that gamblin' with Pikes on a river- 
 boat is one of the ways. He sot his white head 
 down to the poker-table, and stuck thar, lookin' 
 sometimes sly as a kioty, sometimes mean and 
 ugly as a gray wolf, and sometimes like a dead 
 ephergee cut out er chalked wax. She nor I 
 could n't do nothin' with him. So I ambushed 
 the gamblers, an twarn't much arter midnight 
 when I cotched 'em cheatin' the old man. They 
 could n't wait to take his pile slow an' sure. So I
 
 296 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 called an indignation meetin', and when I told the 
 boys aboard I was Luke Armstrong from Oregon, 
 they made me chairman, an' guv me three cheers. 
 I know'd it warn't pollymentary for the chairman 
 to make motions, but I motioned we shove the 
 hul kit an boodle of the gamblers ashore on logs. 
 'T was kerried, quite you-an-I-an-a-muss. So 
 we guv 'em a fair show, with a big stick of cotton- 
 wood and a shingle apiece, and told 'em to navi- 
 gate. The Cap'n slewed the Pallis's head round 
 and opened the furnace-doors to light 'em across, 
 and they poot for shore, with everybody yellin', and 
 the Pallis blowin' her whistle like all oudoors.'' 
 
 " That 's the American method, Biddulph," 
 said I. " Lynch-law is nothing but the sovereign 
 people's law, executed without the intervention 
 of the forms the people usually adopt for con 
 venience." 
 
 " With Armstrong for judge, it may do," said 
 Biddulph. 
 
 " After that," continued Armstrong, " we got 
 on well, except that the old man kep on the 
 stiddy tramp up an' down the boat, when he 
 warn't starin' at the engyne, and Ellen could n't 
 quiet him down. He got hash with her, too, and 
 that ain't like his nater. His nater is a sweet 
 nater, with considerable weakenin' into it. Well, 
 when we got here, I paid their ticket plum 
 through to York out of my own belt, and shoved
 
 SHORT'S CUT-OFF. 297 
 
 a nest er dimes into the carpet-bag she asked me 
 to buy her. But money wunt help the old man. 
 I don't believe anything but dyin' will. I never 
 would have let 'em go on alone ef I had n't had 
 my own Ellen, and all my brother Bill's big and 
 little ones to keep drivin' for. Now, boys, I git 
 more 'n more oneasy the more I talk about 'em ; 
 but I ken put you on the trail, and if Mr. Brent 
 is as sharp on trails where men is thick, as he is 
 where men is scerce, and if she 's got a holt on him 
 still, he '11 find 'em, and help 'em through." 
 
 " That I will, Armstrong," said Brent. 
 
 And next morning we three pursued our, chase 
 across the continent. 
 
 At New York another hurried note for me. 
 
 " "We sail at once for home. My father cannot 
 be at peace until he is in Lancashire again. 
 Don't forget me, dear friends. I go away sick 
 
 at heart. 
 
 " Ellen Clitheroe." 
 
 They left me, — the lover and the ex-lover, — 
 and followed on over seas. 
 
 I had my sister's orphans to protect and my 
 bread to win. The bigger the crowd, the more to 
 pay tribute to an Orson like myself. I fancied that 
 I could mine to more advantage in New York than 
 at the Foolonner. There are sixpences in the 
 straw of every omnibus for somebody to find. 
 
 13*
 
 298 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 I am not to maunder about myself. So I omit 
 the story how I saw a vista in new life, hewed in 
 and took up a " claim," which I have held good 
 and am still improving. 
 
 Meantime nothing from Brent, — nothing from 
 Miss Clitheroe. I grew bitterly anxious for both, 
 — the brother and the sister of my adoption. 
 These ties of choice are closer than ties of blood, 
 unless the hearts are kindred as well as the 
 bodies. My sister Ellen, chosen out of all wo- 
 manhood and made precious to me by the agony 
 I had known for her sake, — I could not endure 
 the thought that she had forgotten me ; still less 
 the dread that her father had dragged her into 
 some voiceless misery. 
 
 And Brent. I knew that he did not write, 
 because he must thus set before his eyes in black, 
 cruel words that his pursuit had been vain. The 
 love that conquered time and space had beaten 
 down and slain Brutality, — was it to be baffled 
 at last ? I longed to be with him, lending my 
 cruder force to his finer skill in the search. 
 Together we might prevail, as we had before pre- 
 vailed. But I saw no chance of joining him. I 
 must stay and earn my bread at my new business. 
 
 Nothing, still nothing from the lady or the 
 lover, and I suffered for both. I wrote Brent, 
 and re-wrote him ; but no answer. 
 
 That winter, my old friend Short perfected his
 
 SHORT'S CUT-OFF. 299 
 
 famous Cut-off. Everybody now knows Short's 
 Cut-off. It saves thirty per cent of steam and 
 fifty per cent of trouble and wear and tear to 
 engineer and engine. 
 
 Short burst into my office one morning. He 
 and Brent and I, and a set of other fellows 
 worth knowing, had been comrades in our 
 younger days. We still hold together, with a 
 common purpose to boost civilization, so far as 
 our shoulders will do it. 
 
 "Look at that," cried Short, depositing a 
 model and sheets of drawings on my table. 
 " My Cut-off. What do you think of it ? " 
 
 I looked, and was thrilled. It was a simple, 
 splendid triumph of inventive genius, — a diffi- 
 culty solved so easily, that it seemed laughable 
 that no one had ever tl^ought of this solution. 
 
 " Short," said I, " this is Fine Art. Hurrah 
 for the nineteenth century ! How did you hap- 
 pen to hit it ? It is an inspiration." 
 
 " It was love that revealed it," said Short. " I 
 have been pottering over that cut-off for years, 
 while She did not smile; when She smiled, it 
 came to me hke a sneeze." 
 
 " Well, you have done the world good, and 
 made your fortune." 
 
 " Yours too, old fellow, if you like. Pack up 
 that model and the drawings, go to England, 
 France, Germany, wherever they know steam
 
 300 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 from tobacco-smoke, take out patents, and intro- 
 duce it. Old Churm says he will let me have 
 half a million dollars, if I want it. You shall 
 have free tap of funds, and charge what per- 
 centage you think proper." 
 
 So I took steamer for England, with Short's 
 Cut-off to make known.
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A LOST TRAIL. 
 
 It was June when I reached London. Busi- 
 ness, not fashion, was my object. I wished to 
 be at a convenient centre of tliat mighty hud- 
 dle of men and things ; so I drove to Smorley's 
 Hotel, Charing Cross. 
 
 In America, landlords dodge personal respon- 
 sibility. They name their hotels after men of 
 letters, statesmen, saints, and other eminent par- 
 ties. Guests will perhaps find a great name 
 compensation for infinitesimal comfort. 
 
 Tliey do these things difierently in England. 
 Smorley does not dodge. Not Palmerston, nor 
 Wordsworth, nor Spurgeon, is emblazoned in 
 smoky gold on Smorley's sign; but Smorley. 
 Curses or blessings, therefore, Smorley himself 
 gets them. Nobody scowls at the sirloia, and 
 grumbles, sotto voce, " Palmerston has cut it 
 too fat to-day" ; nobody tosses between the sheets 
 and prays, " Wordsworth, why didst thou be- 
 grudge me the Insect-Exterminator ? " Nobody 
 complains, " Spurgeon's beer is all froth, and
 
 302 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 small at that." Smorley, and Smorley alone, 
 gets credit for beef, beds, and beer. 
 
 Smorley's Hotel stands at the verge of the East, 
 and looks toward the West End of London. The 
 Strand passes by its side, so thick with men, 
 horses, and vehicles, that only a sharp eye view- 
 ing it from above detects the pavement. The 
 mind wearies with the countless throng, going 
 and coming in that narrow lane, and turns to 
 look on the permanent features of Smorley's 
 landscape. 
 
 The chief object in the view is a certain second- 
 rate square, named to commemorate a certain 
 first-rate victory. But the square, second-rate 
 though it be, is honored by a first-rate railing, a 
 balustrade of bulky granite, which may be valu- 
 able for defence when Crapaud arrives to avenge 
 Trafalgar. Inside the stone railing, which is fur- 
 ther protected by a barricade of cabs, with drivers 
 asleep and horses m nose-bags, are sundry very 
 large stone fountains, of very smoky granite, 
 trickhng with very small trickles of water, which 
 channel the basins as tears channel the face of a 
 dirty boy. The square is on a slope, and seems 
 to be sliding away, an avalanche of water-basins, 
 cabs, and balustrade, from a certain very ugly 
 edifice, severely classic in some spots, classic as a 
 monkish Latin ballad in others, and well sprouted 
 at the top with small sentry-boxes, perhaps shel
 
 A LOST TRAIL. 303 
 
 ters for sharp-shooters, should anybody venture to 
 look mustard at the building. A bronze horse- 
 man, on a bronze horse sixteen hands high, is at 
 work at the upper corner of the square, trying to 
 drive it down hill. A bronze footman, on a col- 
 umn sixteen hundred feet high, or thereabouts, 
 stands at the foot of the square, hailing that fu- 
 gacious enclosure from under a nautical cocked 
 hat to do its duty, as England expects everything 
 English will, and not to run away from the ugly 
 edifice above. 
 
 Such is the square at the very centre of the 
 centre of the world, as I saw it from Smorley's 
 corner window, while dining in the June twi- 
 light, the evening of my arrival in London. 
 
 I sat after dinner looking complacently out up- 
 on the landscape. A man never attains to that 
 stolidity of content except in England, where the 
 air's exciting oxygen is well weakened with fog, 
 aud the air's exhilarating ozone is quite dis- 
 charged from dancing attendance. London and 
 England were not strange to me ; but a great city 
 is ever new, and after two years' inane staring at 
 a quartz-mine, town and townsfolk were still 
 lively contrast to my mind. 
 
 I was quietly entertaining myself, sipping 
 meanwhile my pint of Port, — Fine old Crusty, 
 it was charged in the bill, when I saw coming 
 down St. Martin's Lane, between the cabs and
 
 304 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 the balustrade of the square, two gentlemen I 
 knew. 
 
 Brent and Biddulph! Biddulph, surely 
 There could be no mistakmg that blonde, manly 
 giant, relapsed again into modified Anglicism of 
 dress ; but walking freely along, with a step that 
 remembered the prairie. 
 
 But that pale, feeble fellow hanging on the 
 other's arm! Could that be John Brent? He 
 was sloucliing along, looking upon the ground, 
 a care-worn, dejected man. It cost me a sharp 
 pang to see my brilliant friend so vanquished 
 by a sorrow I could comprehend. 
 
 I sprang up, snatched my hat, and rushed out. 
 Eight quiet men, dining systematically at eight 
 tables in the coffee-room, were startled at a ra- 
 pidity of movement quite unknown to the pre- 
 cincts of Smorley, and each of the eight choked 
 over his mouthful, were it ox-tail, salmon, mutton, 
 bread, or Fine old Crusty. Eight waiters, caught 
 in the act of saying " Yessir ! D'rectly Sir ! " 
 were likewise shocked into momentary paralysis. 
 
 I dashed across the street, knocking the nose- 
 bag off the forlorn nose of a hungry cab-horse, 
 and laid my hand on my friend's shoulder. He 
 turned, in the hasty, nervous manner of a man 
 who is expecting something, and excited with 
 waiting. 
 
 " I was half inclined to let you pass," said I.
 
 A LOST TRAIL. 805 
 
 " Yon have not written. I had no right to sup- 
 pose you aUve." 
 
 " I could only write to pain you and myself. 
 I have not found her. I am hardly alive. I 
 shall not long be." 
 
 " Come," said Biddulph, with his old friendly, 
 cheery manner ; " now that Wade has joined us, 
 we will have a fresh start, and better luck. Walk 
 on with us. Wade, and Brent will tell you what 
 we have been doing." 
 
 " Why should I tire him with the weary story 
 of a fruitless search ? " said Brent. 
 
 It was the same utterly disheartened manner, 
 the same tone of despair, that had so affected 
 me that evening on the plain of Fort Bridger. 
 Not finding whom he sought waa crushing him 
 now, as losing her crushed him then. But I 
 thought by what a strange and fearful mercy 
 our despair of that desolate time had been 
 changed to joy. Coming newly to the fact of 
 loss, I could not see it so darkly as it was 
 present to him. A great confidence awoke in 
 me that our old partnership renewed would pros- 
 per. I determined not to yield to his mood. 
 
 "Your search, then, is absolutely fruitless," 
 said I. " Well, if she is not dead, she must 
 have forgotten us ? " 
 
 " Is she a woman to forget ? " said Brent, 
 roused a little by my wilful calumny.
 
 306 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " Like other women, I suppose." 
 
 " You must have forgotten the woman we 
 met and saved, and had for our comrade, to 
 thmk so." 
 
 I rejoiced at the indignation I had stirred. 
 
 " Why, then, has she never written ? " I que- 
 ried. 
 
 " I am sure as faith that she has, but that her 
 father has cunningly suppressed her letters." 
 
 " The same has occurred to me. The poor 
 old fellow, ashamed of his Mormon life, would 
 very likely be unwilling that any one who knew 
 of it should be informed of his whereabouts." 
 
 " He might, too, have an undiscrimmating, 
 senile terror of any letter going to America, 
 lest it should set Danites upon his track, as a 
 renegade. He might fear that we would take 
 his daughter from him. There are twenty sup- 
 positions to make. I will not accept that of 
 death nor of neglect." 
 
 " No," said Biddulph ; " dead people cannot 
 hide away their bodies, as living can." 
 
 " You know that they are in England ? " 
 
 " They landed in Liverpool from the Screw. 
 There they disappeared. Biddulph took me to 
 Clitheroe, up to the old Hall. A noble place it 
 is. It is poetry to have been born there. I do 
 not wonder Mr. Clitheroe loved it." 
 
 " You must go down with me, Wade, as sooe
 
 A LOST TRAIL. 307 
 
 as the season is over," said Biddulph. " I wish I 
 could quarter you in town. Brent is with me. 
 But you will dine with us every day, when you 
 have nothing better to do, and be at home with 
 us always. I can give you flapjacks and mo- 
 lasses, Laramie fashion." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear fellow ! " 
 
 " You must not think," says Brent, " that I 
 went up to Clitheroe even for Biron's hospitality. 
 "We were both on the search all through the 
 country. We thought Mr. Clitheroe might have 
 betaken himself to a coal-mine again. We dis- 
 covered the very mine where he formerly worked. 
 They remembered him well. The older genera- 
 tion of those grimy troglodytes well remembered 
 Gentleman Hugh and his daughter, little Lady 
 Ellen, and the rough fellows and their rough 
 wives had a hundred stories to tell of the beauti- 
 ful, gentle child, — how she had been a good angel 
 to them, and already a protectress to her father. 
 In the office, too, of the coal-mine, we found 
 traces of him under another name, always faith- 
 ful, honest, respected, and a gentleman. It was 
 interesting to have all his sad story confirmed, 
 just as he told it to you the night of Jake 
 Shamberlain's ball ; but it did not help our 
 search. Then we enlarged its scope, and fol- 
 lowed out every line of travel from Liverpool 
 and to London, the great monster, that draws in
 
 BOS JOHN BRENT. 
 
 all, the prosperous and the ruined, the rich to 
 spend and the poor to beg. 
 
 " We have had some queer and some romantic 
 adventures in our search, eh. Brent ? Some 
 rather comic runaways wc 've overhauled," said 
 Biddulph ; " but we '11 tell you of them, Wade, 
 when we are in good spirits again, and with our 
 fugitives by us to hear what pains we took for 
 their sake." 
 
 " And all this while you have found no trace ? " 
 I said. 
 
 " One slight trace only," replied my friend ; 
 "enough to identify them disappearing among 
 these millions of London. We found a porter at 
 the Paddington station, who had seen a young 
 lady and an old man stepping from a third-class 
 carriage of a night-train. ' You see, sir,' said 
 the man, — he evidently had a heart under liis 
 olive corduroys, — ' I marked the old gent and 
 the young woman, she was so daughterly with 
 him. I 've got a little girl of my own, and may- 
 hap I shall come out old and weakly, and she '11 
 have to look after me. It was the gray of the 
 morning when the train come in. There warn't 
 many passengers. It was cold winter weather, — 
 the month of February, I should say. The 
 young woman, — she had dark hair, and looked 
 as if she was one to go through thick and thin, 
 — she jumped out of the carriage, where she had
 
 A LOST TEAIL. 309 
 
 been settin' all that cold night, and gave the old 
 gent her hand. I heard her call him "Father," 
 and tell him to take care ; and he had need. He 
 seemed to be stiff with cold. He was an old 
 gent, such as you don't see every day. He had 
 a long white beard, — a kind of swallow-tail 
 beard. His clothes, too, was strange. He had a 
 long gray top-coat, grayish and bluish, with a 
 cape of the same over his shoulders, and brass 
 buttons stamped with an eagle. A milingtary 
 coat it was. I used to see such coats on the 
 sentinels in France when I went over to dig on 
 the Chalong Railway. The old gent looked like 
 a foreigner, with his swallow-tail beard and that 
 milingtary coat ; but there was an Englishman 
 under the coat, if I knows 'em. And the young 
 woman, sir, was English, — I don't believe there 's 
 any such out of Old England.' " 
 
 " It must be they," cried I. " I saw him in 
 that very coat, tramping up and down like a 
 hunted man, beside the wagons that were to take 
 him from Fort Laramie." 
 
 " You did ? That completes the identification. 
 But what good ? This was a trace of them in 
 London ; so is a sailor's cap on a surge a token 
 of a sailor sunk and lying somewhere under the 
 gray waste of sea. We lost them again utterly." 
 
 With such talk, we had descended from Tra- 
 falgar Square, gone down Whitehall, turned in
 
 310 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 at the Horse Guards, and, crossing Green Park, 
 had come out upon Hyde Park Corner. It was 
 the very top moment of the London season. 
 The world, all sunshine and smiles and splendor, 
 was eddying about the corner of Apsley House. 
 Piccadilly was a flood of eager, busy people. The 
 Park blossomed with gay crowds. But under 
 all this laughing surface, I saw with my mind's 
 eye two solitary figures slowly sinking away and 
 drowning drearily, — two figures solitary except 
 for each other, — a pale, calm woman, with gray, 
 steady eyes, leading a vague old man, with a 
 white beard and a long military surtout. 
 
 " Lost utterly ! " said Brent again, as if in 
 answer to my thought. 
 
 " No," said I, shaking off this despondency. 
 " We have seemed to lose her twice more des- 
 perately than now. It looked darker when we 
 left them at Fort Bridger; much darker when 
 we knew that those ruffians had got time and 
 space the start of us ; darkest of all when poor 
 Pumps fell dead in Luggernel Alley. Searching 
 in a Christian city is another thing than our 
 agonized chase in the wilderness." 
 
 " A Christian city ! " said Brent, with a slight 
 shudder. " You do not know what this Chris- 
 tian city is for a friendless woman. There are 
 brutes here as evil and more numerous than 
 in all barbarism together. Many times, in my
 
 A LOST TEAIL. 311 
 
 searches up and down the foul slums of London, 
 I have longed to exchange their walls for the 
 walls of Luggernel Alley, and endure again the 
 frenzy of our gallop there. You think mo weak, 
 perhaps, Wade, for my doubt of success ; but 
 remember that I have been at this vain search 
 over England and on the Continent for five 
 months." 
 
 " But understand. Wade," said Biddulph, 
 "that we do not give it up, although we have 
 found no clew." 
 
 " Give it up ! " cried Brent with fervor. " I 
 live for that alone. When the hope ends, I 
 end." 
 
 How worn he looked, " with grief that 's beau- 
 ty's canker ! " Life was wasting from him, as 
 it ever does when man pursues the elusive and 
 unattained. When a man like Brent once vol- 
 untarily concentrates all his soul on one woman, 
 worthy of his love, thenceforth he must have 
 love for daily food, or life burns dim and is a 
 dying flame. 
 
 " To-morrow," said I, halting at the Park 
 corner, " I must be at work setting my business 
 in motion. I have letters to write this evening, 
 and a dozen of famous mechanicians to see to- 
 morrow. In the evening we will put our heads 
 together again." 
 
 " Over my claret and a weed after it, under- 
 stand," said Biddulph.
 
 312 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " Yes, I '11 try whether you can take the tast« 
 of Missouri argee and pigtail out of my mouth." 
 
 " You must be prepared to be made a lion 
 of by my mother and cousins. They know the 
 history of Don Fulano as well as a poet knows 
 the pedigree of Pegasus. I have brought tears 
 to many gentle eyes with the story of his martyr- 
 dom for liberty." 
 
 " Ah, Fulano ! if we only had him here ! He 
 would know how to aid us." 
 
 I left them, and walked down Piccadilly to 
 Smorley's. Some of the eight waiters, who had 
 seen me bolt, still regarded me with affright. 
 I wrote my letters and went to bed. 
 
 My brain was still rolling in my skull with 
 the inertia of its sea voyage. The blur and 
 bustle of London perplexed me. I slept ; but 
 in my worried sleep I seemed to hear, above 
 the roar in the streets, a far-away scream of a 
 woman, as I had heard it in the pause of the 
 gale at Fort Bridger. Then I seemed to have 
 unhorsed the Iron Duke from his seat at Hyde 
 Park Corner, and, mounted in his place and 
 armed with the Nelson Column for a lance, to 
 be charging along the highways and by-ways of 
 London in chase of two dim, flying figures, — a 
 lady pale as death, and a weary man in a long 
 gray surtout.
 
 OHAPTER XXX. 
 
 LONDON. 
 
 Short's Otit-off shut out all oilier subjects from 
 my head uext moruing. 
 
 It was au hmovation, a revolution. Mankmd 
 objects to both. It came from America, and 
 though America has given tobacco, woman's 
 rights, the potato, model yachts, model States, 
 and trotting horses to the Old World, that World 
 still distrusts our work as boyish. We in turn 
 tieem the Old World a mere child, and our youth 
 based on a completer maturity than they will at 
 tain for half a millennium. 
 
 Short's Cut-off was so simple that it puzzled 
 everybody. 
 
 I consulted half a dozen eminent engineers. 
 
 " Very pretty, indeed ! " they said, and at onco 
 turned the conversation to the explosions on 
 Western rivers. " Had I ever been blown up ? 
 How did it feel ? " 
 
 But as to Short's Cut-off, they only thought it 
 a neat contrivance, but evidently by a person 
 who did not comprehend intricate machinery. 
 
 14^
 
 314 JOHN BRENT 
 
 I took it to a man of another order. England 
 is the "world's machine-shop ; he was England's 
 chief engmeer. A great man he was, dead, 
 alas ! now. A freeman, who recognized the world 
 as his country, and genius everywhere as his 
 brother. 
 
 He understood Short's Cut-off at a glance. 
 
 How I wish old Short could have been there, 
 to see this great man's eye glow with enthusiasm 
 as he said : " Admirable ! This is what we have 
 all been waiting for, Padiham must see this. We 
 must have it in every engine in England. Com- 
 mand my services to aid in making it known." 
 
 " Can you recommend me," said I, presently, 
 " a thorough mechanic. I want some more mod- 
 els made of these valves and machinery, to il- 
 lustrate their action." 
 
 " You must go to Padiham, the best artisan T 
 know in all England." 
 
 " Worth seeing for himself, as the man whom 
 you name best among these millions of crafts- 
 men." 
 
 " Padiham is the man.'' 
 
 " He ought to have name and fame." 
 
 "He might if he chose." 
 
 " Worth knowing, again, for this rare abnega- 
 tion." 
 
 " He is an oddity. Some unlucky mode of life 
 stunted him, mind and body, until he was a ma-
 
 LONDON. 815 
 
 ture mail. He is dwarfed in person, and fancies 
 his mind suffers too. It makes him a little gruff 
 to feel that he is a man of tools, and not of princi- 
 ples, — a mechanic, not a philosopher. There is 
 nothing of morbidness or disappomtment in him. 
 Only he underrates himself, and fancies his pow- 
 ers blunted by his deformity. He keeps out of the 
 way, and works alone in a little shop. He will 
 only do special jobs for me and one or two oth- 
 ers. He says he would be our equal, if he were 
 full-grown. We deem him our peer, and treat 
 him as such ; but he will not come out and take 
 the place he could have at once before the world. 
 I thought of him, and wished him to see this Cut- 
 off, as soon as you showed it to me. You must 
 tell him I sent you, or he may be surly at first, 
 and so drive you away, or perhaps refuse to do 
 your work." 
 
 " I think I can make my way with such a per- 
 son ; but if not, I will use your name. Where is 
 he to be found ? " 
 
 "This is his address. An out-of-the-way place, 
 you see, if you know London. A by-street on 
 the Surrey side of the Thames. He is well to 
 do ; but lives there for a special economy. He has 
 a method of charity, which is like himself thor- 
 oughly original. More good he does in his odd 
 way than any man I know. He owns the whole 
 house over his shop, and uses it as a private
 
 316 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 hospital or hospice for poor but w^orthy sick and 
 broken-down people." 
 
 "His own dwarfishness makes him sympa- 
 thetic?" 
 
 " Yes ; instead of souring, it softens him to 
 the feeble. He may perhaps feel a transitory 
 resentment at big, strong fellows like you and 
 me ; but he is always tender to the weak. His 
 wonderful knowledge of machinery comes into 
 play in his hospital. From the machines man 
 makes, he has passed to a magical knowledge of 
 the finest machine of all." 
 
 " The human body ? " 
 
 " The machine that invents and executes ma- 
 chines, the human body, — the most delicate 
 mechanism of all, the type of all its own inven- 
 tions. Padiham achieves magical cures. He is 
 working by practice, and lately by study, into 
 profound surgical skill. There is no man in 
 England whom I would trust to mend me if I 
 broke, as I would Padiham." 
 
 " He avenges himself upon Nature for not per- 
 fecting him, by restoring her breakages. Why 
 do you not suggest to him to become a professed 
 repairer of mankind ? " 
 
 " I have suggested it. He says he must take 
 his own way. Besides, mechanics can hardly 
 spare him. Many of my own inventions would 
 have stayed in embryo in my brain, if Padiham
 
 LONDON. 317 
 
 had not played Tulcan, and split a passage for 
 them. I talk over my schemes to him ; he 
 catches the idea and puts it into form at once." 
 
 " You interest me very much," said I. " I 
 must see the man and know him, for my own 
 sake as well as for Short's Cut-off." 
 
 " Take care he does not drive you away in a 
 huff. You '11 find him a rough-hewn bit." 
 
 I went at once. A man who had warred with 
 Pikes at the Foolonner Mine, to say nothing of 
 other ruder characters, was not to be baffled, so 
 he trusted, by a surly genius. 
 
 As I walked through the crush of the streets, 
 again there came to me that vision of the old 
 man and his daughter lost in the press, — more 
 sadly lost, more vainly seeking refuge here, than 
 m the desert solitudes where we had found them. 
 
 Every one familiar with great cities knows of 
 strange rencounters there, and at every turn I 
 looked narrowly about, fancying that I should 
 see the forms I sought, just vanishing, but leav- 
 ing me a clew of pursuit. This expectation grew 
 so intense, that I exaggerated slight resemblances 
 of costume or of port, and often found myself 
 excitedly hurrying quite out of my way, and 
 shouldering through huddles of people, to come 
 at some figure in the distance. But when I over- 
 took the old man of feeble step, or the young 
 woman moving fearlessly amid the pitiless crowd,
 
 318 . JOHN BRENT. 
 
 or the pair I had followed, and stared at them 
 eagerly, strange and offended looks met me in- 
 stead of the familiar, perhaps the welcome, look 
 I had hoped ; and I tarned away forlornly exag- 
 gerating the disappointment as I had the fancy. 
 
 I cooled at last from this flurry. Nothing but 
 blanks in the lottery. It was folly to be wasting 
 my energy in this way. Trusting Providence, or 
 rather this semblance of Providence, this mere 
 chance, was thin basis for action. So I resumed 
 my proper course, and turned my steps quietly 
 toward Padiham's shop. 
 
 But when presently I stood upon London 
 Bridge, between two cities of men, between the 
 millions I had escaped and the million I was to 
 plunge among, a great despair grew heavier and 
 heavier upon me. 
 
 This terrible throng, here as everywhere hurry- 
 ing by me ! And I compelled to note every man 
 and every woman, and to say to myself, " This is 
 not he," — "This is not she," — "These are not 
 they ! " All the while this stream of negatives 
 rushing by, and every one bearing a little fraction 
 of hope away. 
 
 In that great city — in its nests and its prisons 
 — were people who had been living side by side 
 for a life-time, and yet had never had one glimpse 
 of each other's form or feature ; who were, each 
 to each, but a name on a door, a step overhead, a
 
 LONDON. 319 
 
 tread on the stair, a moan of anguish, a laugh, 
 or a curse. Tliere were parallel streets, too, 
 whose tenants moved parallel and never met, and 
 never would meet. There were neighborhoods 
 farther distant than Oornhill is from Cairo, or 
 Pimlico from Patagonia. It was a dark den — 
 that monster city — for any one who loved to 
 lurk, or be buried away from sight of friend or 
 foe ; it was a maze, a clewless labyrinth for one 
 who sought a foe to punish or a friend to save. 
 
 Evening was approaching. I must consider 
 Short and his Cut-off, and all England wasting 
 steam at the rate of millions of pounds a year 
 (enough to save the income tax) until that 
 Cut-off should be applied. In that populous 
 realm were ten thousand cylinders devouring 
 one third more steam than was healthy working 
 allowance ; and I was halting on London Bridge, 
 staring like a New-Zealander at the passers, a 
 mere obstacle to progress, a bad example, a star 
 tionary nuisance now, as I had been a mobile 
 and intrusive one before. 
 
 I had some little difficulty in finding Padiham's 
 retiring-place. I had already dissected it out on 
 the map, identified it by its neighborhood to a 
 certain artery and its closer neighborhood to a 
 certain ganglion. It was Lamely Court, a quiet 
 retreat in a busy region. It looked, indeed, as if 
 it had never taken a very active part in the 
 world, or as if, when it offered itself to bustle
 
 320 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 and traffic, more enterprising localities had hus- 
 tled it aside, and bade it decline into a lethargy. 
 The withered brick houses had the air and visage 
 of people who have seen better days, and sub- 
 sided into the desponding by-ways, apart from 
 the thoroughfares of the bold and sturdy. Mean 
 misery and squalor did not abide there. It was 
 not a den for the ragged, but a shy retreat for 
 the patched, — for the decent and decorous poor. 
 
 Half-way down the court, on the sunny side, 
 I found Padiham's house. It was quietly, not 
 obtrusively, neater and fresher than its neigh- 
 bors. Its bricks had a less worm-eaten look, and 
 its window-panes were all of glass and none of 
 newspaper. The pot roses in an upper story 
 window were in bloom, and had life enougli to 
 welcome the June sunshine, while sister plants 
 in other garrets all about the court were too far 
 blighted ever to dream of gayer product than 
 some poor jaundiced bud. These roses up in 
 Padiham's window cheered the whole neighbor- 
 hood greatly, with their lively coloring. It was 
 as if some pretty maiden, with rosy cheeks and 
 riper rosy lips, were looking down into that 
 forlorn retreat, and warming every old, faded 
 soul, within every shabby tenement, with bright 
 reminiscence of days when life was in its per- 
 fume and its flower. 
 
 Such was the aspect of Padiham's abode. His 
 shop lurked in the basement.
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 A DWARF. 
 
 It was with much curibsity and interest in 
 Padiham that I stepped down into the basement, 
 and entered his shop. I reverence as much a 
 great mechanic, in degree, perhaps in kind, as I 
 do any great seer into the mysteries of Nature. 
 He is a king, whoever can wield the great forces 
 where other men have not the power. And none 
 can control material forces without a profound 
 knowledge, stated or unstated, of the great mas- 
 terly laws that order every organism, from dust 
 to man and a man-freighted world. A great 
 mechanic ranks with the great chiefs of his time, 
 prophets, poets, orators, statesmen. 
 
 Padiham was in his shop at work. No mis- 
 taking him. A stunted, iron-gray man, not mis- 
 shapen, but only shut together, like a one-barrelled 
 opera-glass. 
 
 A very impressive head was Padiham's. No 
 harm had been done to that by whatever force 
 had driven in his legs and shut his ribs together. 
 His head was full grown. In contrast with his 
 
 14* V
 
 Q 
 
 22 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 body, it seemed even overgrown. His hair and 
 beard were iron-gray. He had those heavy, 
 square eyebrows that compel the eyes from 
 roving, and shut them down upon the matter 
 in hand, so that it cannot escape. Not a man, 
 this, to err on facts or characters. A pretender 
 person, a sham fact, he would test at once and 
 dismiss. Short's Cut-off had never met a sterner 
 critic than this man with the square forehead 
 and firm nose. 
 
 He was hard at work at a bench, low according 
 to his stature, filing at some fine machinery. 
 The shop was filled with a rich sunny duskiness. 
 Here and there surfaces of polished brass spar- 
 kled. Sunbeams, striking through the dim win- 
 dows, glinted upon bits of bright steel strewn 
 about. I perceived the clear pungent odor of 
 fresh steel filings, very grateful after the musty 
 streets, seething in June sunshine and the ex- 
 halations of the noisome Thames. It was a 
 scene of orderly disorder, ruled by the master- 
 workman there. 
 
 Padiham had, of course, observed my entrance. 
 He took no notice of me, and continued his 
 work. 
 
 I held my station near the door. I did not 
 wish to spoil his job by the jar of an interrup- 
 tion. Besides, I thought it as well to let him 
 speak first. I was prepared for an odd man; 
 he might make the advances, if he pleased.
 
 A DWARF. 323 
 
 Padiliain went ou filing, in a grim, intelligent 
 way. I glanced about the shop. 
 
 There were models all about of machines, 
 some known, some strange to me ; disconnected 
 portions of inventions lying side by side, and 
 wanting only a bolt or a screw to be organized 
 and ready to rush at pumping, or lifting, or 
 dragging, or busy duty of some useful kind. 
 There was store, too, of interesting rubbish, — 
 members of futile models, that could not do busy 
 duty of their kind for some slight error, and 
 worth careful study as warnings ; for failure with 
 mechanics is the schoolmaster of success. Draw- 
 ings of engines hung all about the walls. As 
 guardian genius of the spot, there was a portrait 
 of that wise, benignant face of my friend of this 
 morning, that great engineer who had directed 
 me hither. 
 
 Apart in a dusky corner, by the chimney and 
 forge, hung two water-color drawings in neat 
 gilt frames. They were perhaps a little incon- 
 gruous with the scenery of the gnome's cavern. 
 I did not, of course, expect to find here a portrait 
 of a truculent bruiser or a leering bar-maid. 
 Beery journeymen keep such low art hanging 
 before them to seduce them from any ambition 
 to become master hands and beguile them back 
 of beer. Padiham would of course need draw- 
 ings of models and machines, and enjoy them;
 
 324 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 but I did not look for Art proper in his shop. 
 There, however, in the dim background, hung 
 the two cheerful drawings, in their neat frames. 
 They renewed and repeated the feeling which the 
 gay roses in the upper windows had given me. 
 My fancy supplied a link between the drawings 
 and the flowers. They infused a pleasant ele- 
 ment of refinement into the work-a-day atmo- 
 sphere of the shop. 
 
 One of these drawings — I could just faintly 
 distinguish their subject, and not the skiU, greater 
 or less, of their handling — was a view of an old 
 brick many-gabled manor-house on a lawn dotted 
 with stately oaks. Its companion — and the light 
 hardly permitted me to decipher it — seemed to 
 be a group of people seated on the grass, and a 
 horse bending over them. I glanced at these 
 objects as my eye made the tour of the shop ; 
 but my head was filled with Short's Cut-off and 
 this grim dwarf before me. 
 
 Presently Padiham laid down his file, and took 
 up a pair of pincers from the confusion on his 
 bench. He gave a bit of wire a twist, and, as 
 he did so, looked at me. The square eyebrows 
 seemed to hold me stiff, while he inspected. He 
 studied my face, and then measured me from top 
 to toe. There was a slight expression of repel- 
 lence in his features, as if he thought, " This big 
 fellow probably fancies that his long legs make 
 him my master ; we '11 try a match."
 
 A DWARF. 325 
 
 He addressed me in a sweet, hearty voice, quite 
 in discord with his gruff manner. No man could 
 be a bear and roar so gently. I perceived the 
 Lancashire accent. The dialect, if it had ever 
 been there, was worn away. Tones are older in 
 a man than words. He can learn a new tongue ; 
 his organ he hardly alters. If Nature has or- 
 damed a voice to howl, or snarl, or yelp, or bray, 
 it will do so now and then, stuff our mouths 
 with pebbles as we may. 
 
 Padiham's frank, amiable voice neutralized his 
 surly manner, as he said : " Now then, young 
 man, what are you staring at? Do you want 
 anything with me ? Say so, if you do. If not, 
 don't stand idling here ; but go about your busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " I want you to do a job for me." 
 " Suppose I say, I don't want to do it ? " 
 " Then I '11 try to find a better man." 
 " Umph ! where '11 you look for him ? " 
 " In the first shop where there 's one that 
 knows enough to give good words to a stranger." 
 "Well; say what your job is." 
 " You 're ready to do it then ? 
 " I 'm not ready to waste any more time in 
 talk." 
 
 " Nor I. I want some working models of a 
 new patent Cut-off." 
 
 " I wont undertake any tom-foolery."
 
 326 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " If you can make tom-foolery out of this, 
 you 're a cleverer nian than I am." 
 
 " That may not be much to say. I 've had 
 so many shams brought to me in the way of cut- 
 offs that I shall not spend time on yours unless 
 it looks right at first glance. 
 
 " You '11 see with half an eye that this means 
 something." 
 
 " Show me your drawings ; that will settle 
 it." 
 
 I produced the working drawings. 
 
 Padiham studied them a few moments. 1 
 volunteered no explanation. 
 
 Presently he looked up, and fixed me with his 
 square eyebrows, while he examined me from 
 head to foot again. 
 
 " Did you mvent this ? " said he. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Umph ! Thought not. Too tall. Who 
 did ? " 
 
 "Mr. Short." 
 
 " Don't Mister the man that thought out this. 
 His whole name I want, without handles. He 
 don't need 'em." 
 
 "George Short." 
 
 "George, — that's my name too. I suppose 
 he is a Yankee. I know every man in England 
 likely to have contrived this ; but none of them 
 have quite head enough."
 
 A DWAEF. 327 
 
 " He i,:i an American." 
 
 "Is be a Mormon?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Are you ? " 
 
 " No. It is an odd question." 
 
 " I don't know much about your country, ex- 
 cept that you invent macbines, keep slaves, blow 
 up steamboats, and beguile off Englishmen with 
 your damned Mormonism. The Mormons have 
 done so much harm in my country, — Lancashire 
 that is, — that I 've sworn I 'd never have any- 
 thing to do with any Yankee, unless I first knew 
 he was not one of those wolves. But if you're 
 not, and George Short is not, I '11 do your job. 
 Now tell me precisely what you want made, for 
 1 can't spend time with you." 
 
 " I want six sets of these models at once." 
 
 " I '11 order the castings this evening. I have 
 materials here for the fine parts. Can you han- 
 dle tools ? — I mean useful tools, — files and saws 
 and wrenches, not pens and sand-boxes." 
 
 " I 'm a fair workman with your tools." 
 
 " You can help me then. Come over to-mor- 
 row morning at seven. No ; you 're an idler, 
 and I '11 give you till eight. If you 're not here 
 by that time you '11 find me busy for the day." 
 
 So saying, Padiham turned off to his work. 
 He gave me no further attention ; but filed away 
 grimly. I watched him a moment. "What in-
 
 328 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 tensity and earnestness were in this man ! Like 
 other great artists, who see form hidden within 
 a mass of brute matter, he seemed to be nrged 
 to give himself, body and soul, to releasing the 
 form from its cell, to setting free the elemen- 
 tal spirit of order and action locked up in the 
 stuff before him. 
 
 His brief verdict upon my friend's invention 
 settled its success in my mind. Not that I 
 doubted before ; but the man's manner was con- 
 clusive. He pronounced the fiat of the practical 
 world, as finally as the great engineer had done 
 of the theoretical. I thrilled for old Short, when 
 this Dwarf, lurking away in a by-court of Lon- 
 don, accepted him as his peer. The excitement 
 of this interview had for a time quite expelled 
 my anxieties. For a time I had lost sight of 
 the two figures that haunted me, and ever vanished 
 as I pursued. They took their places again as 
 I left the shop and issued from Lamely Court 
 into the crowded thoroughfare at hand. 
 
 I took a cab, and drove to my hotel, and so to 
 Biddulph's. The dinner at the Baronet's shall 
 not figure in these pages. It was my first ap- 
 pearance as hero. I and my horse were historic 
 characters in this new circle. I was lionized by 
 Lady Biddulph, a stately personage, inheritress 
 of a family rustle, — a rustle as old as the Plan- 
 tagenets, and grander now by the accumulations
 
 A DWARF. 329 
 
 of ages. A lovely young lady, with dark hair, 
 who blushed when I took my cue and praised 
 Biddulph, she also lionized me. A thorough- 
 bred American finds English life charming, es- 
 pecially if he is agreeably lionne ; a scrubby 
 American considers England a region of cold 
 shoulder, too effete to appreciate impertinence. 
 
 Lady Biddulph gave me further facts of the 
 history of the Clitheroes. 
 
 " Our dear Ellen ! " she concluded. " If she 
 had known how much I loved her, she would 
 have disregarded her natural scruples," — and 
 she glanced at her son, — "and let me befriend 
 and protect her. It goes to my heart to see Mr, 
 Brent so worn and sad. He, too, has become 
 very dear to us all. I have adopted him as my 
 son as long as he pleases, and try to give him a 
 mother's sympathy." 
 
 Brent walked back with me to Smorley's. 
 
 " How different we are ! " he said, as we 
 parted. " I am all impulse ; you are all steadi- 
 ness." 
 
 " Suffering might throw me off my balance. 
 Remember that I have had trial and experience, 
 but no torture." 
 
 " Torture, that is the word ; and it has un- 
 manned me like a wearing disease. Your com- 
 ing makes a man of me again." 
 
 " Give me a day or two for Short's Cut-off and
 
 330 JOHN BRENT 
 
 the mechanical nineteenth century, and we will 
 take our knight-errantry upon us again. We 
 are dismounted cavaliers now, to be sure, — no 
 Pumps or Fulano to help us, — but we shall find, 
 I will not doubt, some other trusty aid against 
 the demon forces." 
 
 Brent bade me good night with a revival of his 
 old self. We were to meet again to-morrow. 
 
 I sat down to gladden Short with the story of 
 my success to-day, and wrote hard and fast to 
 catch to-morrow's steamer. 
 
 The dwarf, I knew, would be a man after 
 Short's own heart, — these men of iron and steel 
 are full of magnetism for each other. I gave 
 Short a minute description of Padiham's shop. 
 
 As I described, I found that my observation 
 had been much keener than I supposed. Every 
 object in the shop came back to me distinctly. I 
 saw the Rembrandt interior, barred with warm 
 sunbeams ; the grim master standing there over 
 his vice ; the glinting steel ; the polished brass ; 
 the intelligent tools, ready to spring up and do 
 their duty in the craftsman's hands ; that little 
 pretty plaything of a steam-engine, at rest, but 
 with its pocket-piece of an oscillating cylinder 
 hanging alert, so that it could swing off merrily 
 at a moment's notice, and its piston with a firm 
 grip on the crank, equally eager to skip up and 
 down in the cylinder on its elastic cushion of 
 steam.
 
 A DWAEF. 331 
 
 Al l the objects in Padiliam's shop, oue after 
 another, caught my look, as I reviewed the whole 
 in memory. Suddenly I found myself gazing 
 intently at my image of those two water-color 
 drawings in neat gilt frames, hanging in a dusky 
 corner by the chimney, — those two drawings 
 which had revived in my mind the sentiment of 
 the bright, healthy roses in the upper windows. 
 
 Suddenly these drawings recurred to me. They 
 stared at me like an old friend neglected. They 
 insisted upon my recognition. There was a per- 
 sonality in them which gazed at me with a shy 
 and sad reproach, that I had given them only a 
 careless glance, and so passed them by. 
 
 The drawings stared at me and I at them. 
 
 An ancient, many-gabled brick manor-house, 
 on a fair lawn dotted with stately oaks, — that 
 was the first. 
 
 Had I not already seen a drawing, the fellow 
 of this? Yes. In Biddulph's hands at Fort 
 Laramie. The same gables, the same sweet slope 
 of lawn, the same broad oaks, and one the mon- 
 arch of them all, — perhaps the very one Words- 
 worth had rounded into a sonnet. 
 
 And the companion drawing that I hardly 
 deciphered in the dimness, — that group of figures 
 and a horse bending over them ? 
 
 How blind I was ! 
 
 Fulano !
 
 332 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Fulaiio surely. He and no other. 
 
 And that group ? 
 
 Ourselves at the Luggernel Springs. Brent 
 lying wounded, while I gave him water, and a, 
 lady bound up his wounds. 
 
 Can this be so ? Am I not the victim of a 
 fancy ? Is this indeed my noble horse ? Is 
 he again coming forward to bear us along the 
 trail of our lost friend. 
 
 I stared again at my mental image of the two 
 drawings. I recalled again every word of my in- 
 terview with Padiham. 
 
 The more I looked, the more confident I be- 
 came. Short's Cut-off had held such entire pos- 
 session of me in the afternoon, that I could only 
 observe with eyes, not with volition, could not 
 vakie the treasure I was grasping ignorantly. 
 But I had grasped it. This is Fulano ! Except 
 for him, I might doubt. Except for his presence, 
 the other drawing of an old brick manor-house 
 would be a commonplace circumstance. 
 
 " Now let me see," I thought, pushing aside 
 my letter to Short for a moment, " what are my 
 facts ? 
 
 " Mr. Clitheroe and his daughter have disap- 
 peared, and are probably in London. 
 
 " I have found — God be thanked ! — a clew, 
 perhaps a clew. Work by the lady's hand. 
 
 " And where ? In Padiham's shop.
 
 A DWAEF. 333 
 
 " Padiham is a Lancashire man. So is Mr. 
 Clitheroe. 
 
 " Padiham has a horror of Mormons. Why 
 was I so hurried as not to pursue tlie conversa- 
 tion, and discover what special cause he had for 
 his disgust ? 
 
 " Padiham, in a secluded p^rt of London, 
 keeps a hospital for the poor and the sick. 
 
 " There are bright roses in the upper windows. 
 No masculine lingers know how to lure blossoms 
 into being so tenderly. 
 
 " Bright roses in the rooms above ; able draw- 
 ings giving refinement to the rusty shop below. 
 
 " Can it be that they are there, under the very 
 roof of that grim good Samaritan ? 
 
 " In the three millions have I come upon my 
 two units ? 
 
 " Going straight forward and minding my own 
 business, have I effected in one day what Brent 
 has failed in utterly after a search of months ? 
 
 " But let me not neglect the counter facts ? 
 
 " I did not recognize these pictures when I saw 
 them. Perhaps what I find in them now is fan- 
 cy. My own vivid remembrance of the scene at 
 Luggernel may be doing artist-work, and dignify- 
 ing some commonplace illustration of an old bal- 
 lad. Ours was not the first such group since 
 men were made and horses made for them. Fu 
 lano has had no lack of forefathers in heroism.
 
 834 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " And the manor-house ? There are, perhaps, 
 in Padiham's own county, a hundred such an- 
 cient many-gabled brick halls, a hundred lawns 
 fair as the one that falls away gently from Mr. 
 Clitheroe's ancestral mansion, scores of oaks as 
 stately as the one that was lucky enough to 
 shadow Wordsworth, and so cool his head for 
 a sonnet in grateful recompense. 
 
 " Padiham may have a daughter who draws 
 horses and houses to delude me, — imaginative 
 fellow that I am becoming ! 
 
 " Or, what do I know ? Suppose these fugi- 
 tives have taken refuge with Padiham, — it may 
 be to escape pursuit. Poor Mr. Clitheroe ! Who 
 knows what poverty may have permitted him to 
 do ? Better to hide in Lamely Court than to be 
 stared at in a prison ! 
 
 " My facts are slender basis for conclusion," — 
 so I avowed to myself on this review. 
 
 " But I would rather have a hope than no 
 hope. The filmiest clew is kinder than no clew. 
 
 " I will finish my letter to old Short, dear boy, 
 inventor of a well-omened Cut-off"; I will sleep 
 like a top, with no mysterious disappearances to 
 disturb me ; I will be with the Dwarf by seven. 
 If that is Fulano in the drawing-, he shall carry 
 double again. He shall conduct the Lovej;' and 
 Friend to the Lady."
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 PADIHAM'S SHOP. 
 
 How jubilant I felt the next morning as I 
 made my way toward Lamely Court ! The 
 Thames really seemed to me a pure and lucent 
 current. I began to fancy that there might be 
 a stray whiff of ozone in the breezes of Albion. 
 
 Wliat a cheerful clock it was, in some steeple 
 near at hand, that struck seven as I set foot 
 upon Padiham's steps ! What a blessing to a 
 neighborhood to have a clock so utterly incredu- 
 lous of dolefulness, — a clock that said All 's well 
 to the past hour, and prophesied All 's well to the 
 coming ! 
 
 " Now," I thought, " I must have my wits 
 about me. My business is with Padiham the 
 mechanic, not with Padiham the good Samari- 
 tan, My time and mind belong to Short's 
 Cut-ofiF. I must not dash off into impertinent 
 queries about people the dwarf may know noth- 
 ing of, may wish to tell nothing of. Keep cool, 
 Richard Wade ! mind your own business, and 
 then you can mind other people's. Be ready to
 
 
 6 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 be disappointed ! Destiny is not so easy to propi- 
 tiate as you seemed to believe last niglit. 
 
 As the clock dallied on its last stroke of seven, 
 I entered Padiham's shop. 
 
 My first glance — eyes never looked more 
 earnestly — was toward the two drawings. 
 
 There they were, — fact not fancy. 
 
 I could still hold to the joy of a hope. - 
 
 They were too far away in this dusky corner 
 for absolute recognition ; but there were the 
 familiar gables of the old hall ; and there was 
 my horse, yes, himself, bending over that very 
 group of Luggernel Sprmgs. I must cling to 
 my confidence ; I would not doubt. If I doubted, 
 I should become a stupid bungler over the mod- 
 els, and probably disgust Padiham by my awk- 
 wardness. 
 
 " Good morning, Mr. Padiham." 
 
 " Good morning," said he, in that hearty voice 
 which resolutely declined bemg surly. 
 
 He was standing, filing away, just where I had 
 left him yesterday. Put him on a pair of prop- 
 erly elongated legs, shake the reefs out of his 
 ribs, in short, let Procrustes have half an hour 
 at him, and a very distinguished-looking man 
 would be George Padiham. In fact, as he was, 
 his remarkable head raised him above pity. Many 
 of us would consent to be dwarfed, to be half 
 man below the Adam's apple, if above it we
 
 PADIHAM'S SHOP. 337 
 
 could wear the head of a Jupiter Tonans, such a 
 majestic head as this stunted man, the chief 
 artisan of all England. 
 
 Padiham was as gruff as yesterday, but his 
 gruffness gave him flavor. Better a boor than 
 a flunkey. There is excitement m talking with 
 a man who respects you exactly in proportion 
 to your power, and ignores you if you are a 
 muff. 
 
 We went at our work without delay. For 
 nearly two hours I put myself and kept myself 
 at Short's Cut-off. Padiham's skill and readiness 
 astonished me. Great artists are labor-saving 
 machines to themselves ; they leap to a conclu- 
 sion in a moment, where a potterer would be 
 becalmed for a tide. 
 
 By and by, I found that I could be of no fur- 
 ther use to this master craftsman. 
 
 " You understand this job better than I do," 
 said I. 
 
 " I understand it," said he. 
 
 " I '11 take a short spell," said I, " and look 
 about the shop a httle." 
 
 " Don't be setting my tools by the ears." 
 
 " No ; I want to see those pictures by the 
 chimney." 
 
 He said nothing. His lathe buzzed. His chisel 
 tortured bars of metal until they slirieked. The 
 fragrance of fresh-cut steel filled the shop. 
 15 V
 
 338 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 I sprang to the dusky corner. My heart choked 
 me. I wanted to shout so that John Brent, miles 
 away across the wilderness of the great city, 
 could hear and come with one step. 
 
 For here was what I hoped. 
 
 Here we were, our very selves, in this bold, 
 masterly drawing. John Brent himself, the 
 wounded knight ; myself, bringing him water 
 from the fountain ; our dear Ellen, kneeling 
 beside ; and bending over us, Don Fulano, the 
 chiefest hero of that terrible ride through the 
 canon. 
 
 And more, if I needed proof. For here, in 
 among the water-plants by the spring, there in 
 the grass under Wordsworth's oak, lurked the 
 initials, E. C. 
 
 Found ! Ah, not yet. A clew ; but perhaps 
 a clew that would break in my hands, as I 
 traced it. 
 
 I lost no time. 
 
 " These are pretty pictures," said I, crushing 
 myself into self-possession. 
 
 " What has that got to do with this job ? " 
 
 " You think I 'm a pretty good mechanic ? " 
 
 " Middling. You handle tools well enough for 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " Well, if I were not a bit of an artist, I should 
 not even be a middling mechanic. I like to see 
 fine art, such as these drawings, hung up before
 
 PADIHAM'S SHOP. 339 
 
 a working man. I can understand how appre- 
 ciating such things has helped you to become the 
 first mechanic in England." 
 
 " Who says I am that ? " 
 
 " So the first engineer in England told me 
 when he sent me here." 
 
 " 0, he sent you ! I supposed you did not 
 find your own way." 
 
 "There has been no chance in my coming 
 here," said I, and my heart thanked God. 
 
 "You're right about those drawings, young 
 man," Padiham said, and his voice seemed to 
 find a sweeter tone even than before. "They 
 do me good, and put a finer edge on my work. 
 They 're good work, and by a good hand." 
 
 " Whose ? " 
 
 The dwarf turned about and surveyed me 
 strictly. Then he started his lathe again, tore 
 off a narrow ringlet of steel from a bit he was 
 shaping, and flung another stream of steely per- 
 fume into the air. 
 
 " Whose hand ? " I asked again. 
 
 "Do you ask because you want to know, or 
 only to make idle talk ? " 
 
 " I want to know." 
 
 " What for ? " 
 
 " I think the drawings are good. I should 
 like a pair by the same hand. Can you. direct 
 me to the artist? "
 
 840 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " The artist don't like strangers. I will order 
 you what you want." 
 
 " That will not do. I prefer to talk over the 
 subjects with the painter." 
 
 The dwarf turned again and gave me a prob- 
 ing look, and again took up his chisel and cut 
 shining curls without reply. 
 
 I grew impatient of this parley. He knew 
 something, and it must out. 
 
 " Look at me, George Padiham ! " I said. 
 " Stop your lathe a minute, and charge me for 
 the time a hundred times over ! I know the 
 hand that painted these pictures. My portrait 
 and my friend's, and my horse's portrait, are 
 here on your wall. Only one person in the 
 world can have painted them, Ellen Clitheroe. 
 Here are her initials in the corner. You know 
 where she is. I wish to see her. I must see 
 her, at once, now ! " 
 
 " Keep cool, young man ! This is my shop. 
 I 'm master here. I 've put bigger men than 
 you out of this door before. What's all this 
 must and shall about ? What 's your name ? " 
 
 "Richard Wade." 
 
 Padiham left his lathe, came toward me, sur- 
 veyed me earnestly again, and then took down 
 the drawing wherein I appeared. He compared
 
 PADIHAM'S SHOP. 841 
 
 the man standing before him with his counter- 
 feit presentment. There could be no mistaking 
 me. I had the honor to resemble myself, as the 
 artist had remembered me. 
 
 " You 're the man," said Padiham. " I 've 
 heard of you. I wasn't looking sharp not to 
 have known you when you first came in and 
 stood there by the door waiting for me to speak 
 first. Richard Wade, give me your hand! I 
 suppose if I am the best mechanic in England, 
 called so on good authority, you wont mind 
 striking palms with me." 
 
 I shook him by the hand pretty vigorously. 
 
 " You 've got a middhng strong grip of your 
 fist for one of the overgrown sort," said he. 
 *' Where 's your friend, John Brent ? " 
 
 "Here in London, searching for Miss Cli- 
 theroe ! " 
 
 " Where 's your horse ? — the Black ? " 
 
 " Dead ! Shot and drowned in the Missouri, 
 helping oflf a fugitive slave." 
 
 "That's brave. Well, Richard Wade, my 
 dear child Ellen Clitheroe and her father are 
 here in my house. They are safe here, after all 
 their troubles, up in that room where perhaps 
 you marked the roses in the window. She has 
 been sick at heart to have heard nothmg from 
 you since she came to England. It will be the 
 one thing she lacks to see you, and if you will
 
 842 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 let me say a few words to you first, I'll tako 
 you to them." 
 
 " Go on. K you have protected my friends, 
 you are my friend, and I want to hear what you 
 have to say."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 "CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 
 
 " I AM short, and I shall try to make a long 
 story short," said Padiham. " I wish to tell you, 
 iu as few words as I may, why Mr. Clitheroe and 
 his daughter are in my house. 
 
 " Look at me, a stunted man ! Life in a coal- 
 mine stunted me. I suppose I was born under- 
 ground. I know that I never remember when I 
 was not at work, either harnessed like a dog, and 
 dragging coals through a shop where I could not 
 stand upright, or, when I grew stronger, — bigger 
 I was not to grow, — down in the darkest holes, 
 beating out with a pickaxe stuff to make other 
 men's houses warm and cheery. If I had had 
 air and sun and light and hope, I might have 
 been a shapely man. 
 
 " It was m Lancashire, the coal-mine where 
 I had been shut up, boy and man, some twenty 
 years, as I reckon. There came one day a 
 weakly man, who had n't been used to work 
 hard, into the shaft, and they put him at drawing 
 out the coals I dug Hugh was the name ho
 
 344 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 gave, and he had n't been long enough under- 
 ground to get his face black, before we 'd baptized 
 him Gentleman Hugh. I had never seen a gen- 
 tleman to know him, but I had a feeling of what 
 one ought to be, and so had my mates in the pit 
 Gentleman Hugh seemed to us to suit the nick- 
 name we gave him. We 're roughs down in the 
 coal-pits, and some of us are brutes enough ; but 
 Gentleman Hugh managed to get us all on his 
 side, and there was n't a man of us that would n't 
 give him a lift. 
 
 " Gentleman Hugh took a fancy to me, and so 
 did I to him. Nature had misused me, and life 
 had misused him. We had something to pity 
 each other for. But I liad the advantage in the 
 dark damp hole where we worked. I had lost 
 nothing ; I knew of nothing better ; I was healthy 
 and strong, if I was stunted ; I could help Gen- 
 tleman Hugh, and save him wearing himself out. 
 And so I did. He was the first person or crea- 
 ture I had ever cared for. 
 
 " I did what I could for him in lightening his 
 work ; but he gave me back a hundred times 
 what I could give. I was hands without head, 
 or without any head that could make my hands 
 of use. He had head enough, and things in his 
 head, but his hands were never meant for tools to 
 get a living. Gentleman Hugh waked up my 
 brains. I knew how to pick and dig, and some-
 
 "CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 345 
 
 times wondered if that was all I should ever be 
 at. But air and daylight seemed as if they did 
 not belong to me. I was a drudge, and never 
 thought of anything but drudging, until Gentle- 
 man Hugli came down into my shaft and began 
 to tell me what there was outside of coal-mines. 
 
 " He told me about himself; that he was Hugh 
 Clitheroe, a gentleman, and how he had been 
 ruined by factories and coal speculations. It 
 was his losing his fortune in a coal-mine that set 
 him on coming into ours to make his bread, and 
 poor bread too, for a gentleman. He said he 
 was sick of daylight. It was better to be a 
 drudge, so he said, down in the blackest and 
 wettest hole of. any coal-pit in Lancashire, than 
 to beg bread of men that pretended to be his 
 friends when he was rich, and sneered at him for 
 his folly in losing his wealth. I found out that 
 there were wrongs and brutality above ground as 
 well as under it. 
 
 " By and by, when Gentleman Hugh and I had 
 got to be friends, he took me one holiday and 
 showed me his daughter. She was a sweet little 
 lass. He had left her with the rough women, the 
 miners' wives. But she had her own way with 
 them, just as he had had with us. They called 
 her little Lady Ellen, and would have cut up their 
 own brats, if they had n't been too tough, if she 
 liad wanted such diet. Little Ellen, sweet lass ! 
 
 15*
 
 846 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 ■was not afraid of me, Dwarf George and Runt 
 George as they called me. She did not run 
 away and cry, or point and laugh at me as the 
 other children did. She was picking daisies on 
 the edge of an old coal-pit when we first saw 
 her, — a little curly-haired lass of five years old. 
 She was crowned with daisies, and she did n't 
 seem to me to belong to the same class of beings 
 as the grimy things I had been among all my 
 days. She gave me a daisy, and asked me if I 
 knew who made it. And when I said I did n't 
 know, unless it came of itself, she named God to 
 me. Nobody had named God to me before ex- 
 cept in oaths. 
 
 " Do I tire you, sir," said Padiham, " with this 
 talk about myself? " 
 
 " Certainly not ; you interest me greatly." 
 
 " The old gentleman will hardly be ready to 
 see you yet. It is almost nine, and at the stroke 
 of nine he has his breakfast. I always go up 
 then to give him good morning. You can go 
 with me." 
 
 " Meantime, tell me how you found them 
 again." 
 
 " I found them by a drawing of hers. But I 
 will go on straightforward with my story. 
 
 " I could n't stay a dolt, though I had to 
 drudge for many a day after I first saw - little 
 Ellen, and she gave me the daisy and named God
 
 "CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 347 
 
 to me. Whenever I could get away, and that 
 was only once a quarter or a half-year, I went up 
 to see her. She made a friend of me, and told 
 me to take care of her father. He was very 
 much down, quite broken and helpless, with just 
 enough strength to do half his appointed work. 
 So I helped him with the rest. 
 
 " After a long time the owners found out that 
 he had education, and they took him into the 
 office. All the men were sorry to lose Gentle- 
 man Hugh, and when he went, I lost heart, and 
 took to drinking up my miserable earnings with 
 the rest. There I was, a drudge in the dark, and 
 getting to be a drunkard, when Gentleman Hugh 
 came to me and told me how some one had left 
 him a legacy, and I must get out of the pit and 
 share with him. He said little Ellen would not 
 be happy unless she had me. 
 
 " So he took me up into the air and sun, and 
 put me to school. But I could never learn much 
 out of books. Put tools in my hands and I can 
 make things, and that is what my business is in 
 the world. You see those arms, well made as 
 your own. You see those hands, strong as a 
 vice; and those fingers, fine as a woman's. They 
 are tools, and able to handle tools. The rest of 
 my body is stunted ; my brain is stunted. I 'm 
 uo fool ; but I 'm not the man I ought to be. 
 Every day I feel that I cannot put my thoughts 
 into the highest form."
 
 848 JOHN BKENT. 
 
 " Every mau of any power feels that," I said, 
 " by whatever machinery his power finds expres* 
 sion. 
 
 " Perhaps so. Well, when Mr. Clitheroe had 
 once given me a start in the open air, and I had 
 got tools in my hands, pretty soon they began to 
 talk of me as one of the masters in Lancashire. 
 There 's a great call in England for thorough 
 workmen. I came up to London. I fell in with 
 the gentleman who sent you here, and I got on 
 well. There 's as much good work goes out of 
 this little shop as out of some big establishments 
 with great names over the door. People try to 
 get me to start a great shop, and make a great 
 fortune, and have George Padiliam talked about. 
 But I 'm Dwarf George, born in a coal-mine and 
 stunted in a coal-mine ; and Lamely Court, with 
 my little shop in the basement, suits me best. 
 
 " I never forgot how I owed all my good luck 
 to Gentleman Hugh and my dear little Ellen. If 
 it had not been for them, I should have died 
 underground of hard work, before thirty, as most 
 of my mates did. Their help of me gave me a 
 kindly feeling toward broken-down gentlefolks. 
 I owed the class my luck, and when I got on and 
 had money to spend, having no one of my own 
 to spend it for, I looked up people as badly off 
 as Gentleman Hugh was when I first knew him, 
 and helped them. They are a hard class to hel^
 
 "CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 349 
 
 — proud as Lucifer sometimes, with their own 
 kind. I took this house here, out of the way as 
 much as any spot in London. Whenever I knew 
 of a gentleman, or a gentlewoman, given out, or 
 worn out, so that they could n't take care of 
 themselves, I brought them in here. If they 
 were only given out, I put stuff into them again, 
 cheered them up, and found some work for them 
 to do. Gentlefolks are not such fools, if they 
 only had education. If I found one that was 
 worn out beyond all patching, I packed him into 
 a snug corner up-stairs, and let him lie there. 
 They like it better than public hospitals and 
 retreats. 
 
 " All the while I was getting on and getting 
 rich in a small way, with some small shares in 
 patents I own. But I kept my eye on Gentle- 
 man Hugh. I knew what would come to him, 
 and I never took in ten shillings that I did not 
 put away one for him and his daughter. 
 
 " I knew of his going to America with the Mor- 
 mons, — damn 'em ! I went down to Clitheroe to 
 persuade him to give up the plan. He would 
 not. He quarrelled with me, — our first hard 
 words. He forbade his daughter to write to me. 
 
 " I knew he would come back some time or 
 other, stripped and needy. I watched the pack- 
 et's lists of passengers. He did not come under 
 his own name ; but I saw last winter an old Lan-
 
 350 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 cashire name on a list of arrivals, — the name of 
 that worn-out shaft where Ellen had picked the 
 daisy for me. It was a favorite spot of his. 
 Part of his money had gone down it, and he used 
 to sit and stare into it as if the money was going 
 to bubble up again. I traced them by that to 
 London. Here for a time I lost them. 
 
 " He got very low in London, — poor old man ! " 
 continued Padiham, 
 
 " Nothing dishonest, I hope," said I. 
 
 " No, no. Only gambling, with a crazy hope of 
 getting even with the world again. In this way 
 he spent all that he had left, and Ellen's hard 
 earnings beside. It made him wild for her to re- 
 fuse him ; so she was forced to give him all that 
 she could spare, — all except just enough to pay 
 for a poor place to live in and poorer fare. She 
 never knew where he spent the long nights ; she 
 only saw him creep back to his garret in the early 
 morning destitute and half alive. Richard Wade, 
 you may read books, and hear tales, and go 
 through the world looking for women that help 
 and hope, and never give up helping and hoping; 
 but you '11 never find another like her, — no, not 
 like my dear lass, — as grand a beauty, too, as 
 any at the Queen's court." 
 
 " You are right, Padiham. None like her." 
 
 " But I promised you to talk as short as I 
 could. I must tell you how I found them. The
 
 "CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 351 
 
 poor gentle-folks that I take care of generally 
 know something of ornamental work that they 
 learnt to do, for play, when they were better off. 
 I set them at doing what they can do best, and 
 sell it for them. There is always some one 
 among my family can draw. What of their 
 drawings I can't dispose of at the print-shops I 
 buy myself, and scatter 'em round among me- 
 chanics to light up their benches. You were 
 right when you said a man cannot be a good 
 artisan unless he has a bit of the artist in him. 
 
 "It was by going to a print-shop with draw- 
 ings to sell that I found my dear lass. She had 
 painted me, and sold the picture to the dealer 
 for bread. I would n't have noticed the picture 
 except for the dwarf in it, and now I would n't 
 be a finished man for the world. Yes, there I 
 was. Dwarf George, picking daisies on the edge 
 of a coal-pit ; there I was, just as I used to look, 
 with the coal-dust ground into me, trying to 
 make friends with the fresh innocent daisies in 
 the sunshine. 
 
 " By that picture I found them just in time. 
 When I got to their garret, Ellen was lying sick, 
 ill in body, and tired and sorrowed out. Their 
 money was all gone, for Gentleman Hugh had 
 been robbed of his last the night before. I 
 brought my dear child and her father here. What 
 I had was theirs.
 
 352 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 " As soon as her father was safe with me, hia 
 old friend, she got well. As soon as his daughter 
 was out of the way of harm and want, and the 
 old gentleman had nothing to be crazy about and 
 nothing to run away from, he stopped dead. He 
 fell into a palsy. 
 
 " There he is now up-stairs. Ellen chose the 
 upper room, where they could look over the 
 house-tops and of clear days see the Surrey Hills. 
 I 've got some skill in my fingers for mending 
 broken men, but Hugh Clitheroe can't be mend- 
 ed. It 's as well for him that he can't. He 's 
 been off track too long ever to run steady in this 
 world. But he has come to himself, and sees 
 things clearer at last. He lies there contented 
 and patient, waiting for his end. He sees his 
 daughter, who has gone with him though thick 
 and thin, by his side, and knows she will love 
 him closer every day. And he knows that his 
 old mate. Dwarf George, is down here in the 
 basement, strong enough to keep all up and all 
 together." 
 
 "Let me be the one, Mr. Padiham," said I, 
 " to ask the honor of shaking hands with you. 
 I think better of the world for your sake." 
 
 " Young man," said he, with his clear, frank 
 voice, " a noble woman like my Ellen betters 
 every true man. There strikes nine. A pleas- 
 ant church-clock that ! I gave it to 'em. Now
 
 *CAST THY BREAD UPON THE WATERS." 353 
 
 you 're well tired of my talk, I dare say. Come, 
 Ellen will have all she has missed when she sees 
 you and your friend. Many times she has told 
 me of that ride of yours. Many times she has 
 cried, as a woman only cries for one loss, when 
 she told me how day after day she waited to hear 
 from you, and had never heard." 
 
 " She wrote ? " 
 
 " Repeatedly." 
 
 " We never heard." 
 
 " Her father took her letters from her to 
 post." 
 
 " And kept them or destroyed them for some 
 crazy suspicion." 
 
 " She dreaded you might have been chased 
 and cut off by the Mormons. She would not 
 believe that you had forgotten her." 
 
 " Forgotten ! Come, I '11 follow you."
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 THE LAST OF A LOVE-CHASE. 
 
 " How easy it seems for noble souls to be no- 
 ble ! " thought I, as I followed Padiham up the 
 neat staircase of his House of Charity. " What 
 a beautiful veugeance it is of this man upon 
 nature for blighting him ! A meaner being 
 would be soured, and turn cynic, and perhaps 
 chuckle that others were equalized with him by 
 suffering. He simply, and as if it were a matter 
 of course, gives himself to baffling sorrow and 
 bhght. It is Godlike." And I looked with 
 renewed admiration at the strange figure climb- 
 ing the stairs before me. 
 
 He was all head and shoulders, and his mo- 
 tions were like a clumsy child's. I went slowly 
 after him. Was it true that this long love-chase 
 over land and sea was at its ending? Joy is 
 always a giant surprise, — success a disappoint- 
 ment among the appointed failures. Was this 
 grim dwarf to be a conjurer of happiness ? 
 
 Padiham tapped at a door in the upper story. 
 
 A voice said, " Come in."
 
 THE LAST OF A LOVE-CHASE. 355 
 
 Her voice ! That sweet, sad voice ! That un- 
 murmuring, unrebellious voice ! That voice of 
 gentle defiance, speaking a soul impregnable ! 
 How full of calm hopefulness ! while yet I could 
 detect in it the power of bursting into all the hor- 
 ror of that dread scream that had come through 
 the stillness to our camp at Fort Bridger. 
 
 The dwarf opened the door quietly. 
 
 The sunshine of that fresh June morning lay 
 bright upon the roses in the window. My glance 
 perceived the old blue-gray infantry surtout hang- 
 ing in a corner. Mr. Clitheroe was sitting up 
 in bed, lifting a tea-cup with his left hand. His 
 long white beard drifted over the cool bedclothes. 
 An appetizing breakfast, neatly served, was upon 
 a table beside Mm. And there in this safe 
 haven, hovering about him tenderly as ever in 
 the days of his errant voyaging in the hapless 
 time gone by, was his ministering angel, that 
 dear daughter, the sister of my choice. 
 
 She turned as we entered. 
 
 The old steady, faithful look in the gray eyes. 
 The same pale, saddened beauty. The unblench- 
 ing gaze of patient waiting. 
 
 She looked at me vaguely, while life paused 
 one pulse. Then, as I stepped forward, the elo- 
 quent blood gushed into her face, — for she knew 
 that the friend could not long outrun the lover. 
 She sprang into my arms. Forgive me, John
 
 S5Q . JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Brent, if I did put my lips close to her burning 
 cheek. It was only to whisper, " He is in Lon- 
 don, searching for you. He has never rested 
 one moment since you were lost to us. In an 
 hour he will be here." 
 
 " Dear father," she said, drawing herself away, 
 
 and smiling all aglow, while tears proclaimed 
 
 a joy too deep for any surface smile to speak, 
 
 * " this is our dear friend, my preserver, Mr. 
 
 Wade." 
 
 Mr. Clitheroe studied me with a bewildered 
 look, as I have seen an old hulk of a mariner 
 peer anxiously into a driving sea-fog from the 
 shore, while he talked of shipmates shaken from 
 the yard, or of brave ships that sunk in un- 
 known seas. Then the mist slowly cleared away 
 from the old gentleman's dim eyes, and he saw 
 me in the scenery of my acting with him. 
 
 " All yes ! " he said, in a mild, dreamy voice, 
 "I see it all. Sizzum's train, Fort Bridger, the 
 Ball, the man with a bloody blanket on his head, 
 you and your friend galloping off over the prai- 
 rie, — I see it all." 
 
 He paused, and seemed to review all that wild 
 error of his into the wilderness. 
 
 " Yes, I see it all," he continued. " My dear 
 Mr. Wade, I remember you with unspeakable 
 gratitude. You and your friend saved me thia 
 dearest daughter. I have suffered wearing dis-
 
 THE LAST OF A LOVE-CHA.SE. 357 
 
 tress siuce then, and you must pardon me for 
 forgetting you one instant. Excuse my left 
 hand ! Dwarf George is a capital machinist, 
 but he says he cannot put new springs into my 
 right. That is nothing, my dear Mr, Wade, 
 that is nothing. God has given me peace of 
 mind at last, my dear daughter has forgiven 
 me all my old follies, and my stanch old mate 
 will never let me want a roof over my head, or 
 a crust of his bread and a sup of his can." 
 
 There is a Hansom cab-horse, now or late of 
 London, who must remember me with asperity. 
 
 But then there is a cabman who is my friend 
 for hfe, if a giant fare can win a cabman's 
 heart. 
 
 By the side of the remembrance of my gal- 
 lop down Luggernel Alley, I have a picture in 
 my mind of myself, in a cab, cutting furiously 
 through the canons of London in chase of a 
 lover. The wolves and cayotes of the by-streets — 
 there are no antelopes in London — did not at- 
 tempt to follow our headlong speed. We rattled 
 across Westminster Bridge, up Whitehall, and 
 so into May Fair to Lady Biddulph's door. 
 
 The footman — why did he grin when he saw 
 me ? — recognized me as the family friend of yes- 
 terday, and ushered me without ceremony into 
 the breakfast-room, where the family were all 
 assembled.
 
 358 JOHN BRENT. 
 
 Why did the footman grin? I perceived, as 
 I entered. A mirror fronted me. My face was 
 like a Sioux's in his war-paint. There liad been 
 flies in Padiham's shop, and I had brushed them 
 away from my face, alas ! with hands blackened 
 over the lathe. 
 
 All looked up amazed at this truculent in- 
 truder. It was, — 
 
 " Enter Orlando, with his sword drawnP 
 
 " Forbear, and eat no more ! " 
 
 An injunction not necessary for poor Brent, 
 who bat dreary and listless. 
 
 The rest forbore at my apparition. Egg-spoon 
 paused at egg's mouth. Sugar sank to the floor 
 of cofiee-cup. Toast silenced its crackle. 
 
 Brent recognized me in the grimy pirate be- 
 fore him. 
 
 He sprang to his feet. " You have found 
 her ! " cried he. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 He looked at me eagerly. 
 
 " Well and happy," I said ; " in a safe haven 
 with a faithful friend. Lady Biddulph wiU par- 
 don me, bringing such tidings, for rushing in 
 in my war-paint, American fashion." 
 
 " You are always welcome, Mr. Wade, in what 
 costume you please," said she. " Doubly so 
 with this happy news. My dear Ellen ! I must 
 see her at once, — as soon as closer friends have
 
 THE LAST OF A LOVE-CHASE. 359 
 
 had their hour. But, Mr. Brent, you are not 
 going -without your breakfast ! " 
 
 Everybody smiled. 
 
 " Come ! Come ! " cried Brent. 
 
 " Come ! " and as we hurried away, there was 
 again the same light in his eye, — the same life 
 and ardor in his whole being, as when, in that 
 wild Love-Chase on the Plains, we galloped side 
 by side. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 " ' Malbone ' is a rare work, possessing these characteristics, and replete, too, 
 with honest literary effort. The author has much of the psychological acumen 
 cf Hawthorne, but he owes to no one a pure style, and a flashing, genial wit 
 ■which never degenerates into caricature or coarseness." 
 
 THE HOUSEHOLD DICKENS. 
 
 " 1 may quarrel with Mr. DicAens's art a thousand and a thousand times, I 
 delight and wonder at his genius ; I recognize in it — / speak with awe and rev- 
 erence — a commission from that Divine Beneficence, whose blessed task we know 
 it will one day be to wipe every tear from every eye. Thankfully I take my 
 share of the feast uf love and kindness in which this gentle, and generous, and 
 charitable soul has contributed to the happiness of the world. I take and enjoy 
 7ny share, and say a Benediction for the meal." — W. M. Thackeray. 
 
 The Household Edition of Dickens's Complete Works is uniform in size, 
 shape, and general style with the Household Editions of the Wavbrley 
 Novels, Reads, Thackekay, and George Eliot, which have been received
 
 Choice and Popular Works of Fiction. 
 
 public. It contains 14 duodecimo vol- 
 
 U. OLIVER TWIST, 
 
 PICTURES FROM ITALY, 
 and AMERICAN NOTES. 
 
 12. A TALE OF TWO CITIES, and 
 GREAT EXPECTATIONS. 
 
 13. CHRISTMAS STORIES, and 
 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 
 
 14. UNCOMMERCIAL TRAVEL- 
 
 LER, and 
 ADDITIONAL CHRISTMAS 
 STORIES. 
 
 with so marked favor by the American 
 umes, as follows : — 
 
 1. THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 
 
 2. OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 
 
 3. DAVID COPPERFIELD. 
 
 4. NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 
 
 5. MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 
 
 6. DOMBEY AND SON. 
 
 7. OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, and 
 
 REPRINTED PIECES. 
 
 8. LITTLE DORRIT. 
 
 9. BLEAK HOUSE. 
 
 10. BARNABY RUDGE, and 
 HARD TIMES. 
 
 The first volume has a new Portrait on Steel of Me. Dickens ; and each vol- 
 ume contains Sixteen full-page Illustrations by Sol. Ettinge, Jr., of which 
 Mr. Dickens said : " They are remarkable for a delicate perception of beauty, 
 a lively eye for character, a most agreeable absence of exaggeration, and a 
 general modesty and propriety which I greatly like." 
 
 Price, $ 1.50 per volume. 
 
 DICKENS'S WORKS. 
 
 THE ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 This is unquestionably the best and most desirable Library edition of Dick- 
 ens's Works now published. Its special points of excellence are the following : 
 First, its large type ; second, it coatains all the original Illustrations by Crdik- 
 SHANK, Phiz, Setmour, Catermole, Leech, and others, — printed from the 
 original plates, in which the spirit and delicacy of the early etchings are pre- 
 served i third, the compact and convenient shape of the volumes ; fourth, the 
 continuous paging, instead of two or more series of pages, as in books made 
 up of separate volumes ; and, fifth, its low price compared with that of any 
 other Library edition at all worthy to be placed in comparison with this. 
 
 This Edition contains Twenty-seven duodecimo volumes, as follows : — 
 
 BARNABY RUDGE. 2 vols. 
 DAVID COPPERFIELD. 2 vols. 
 LITTLE DORRIT. 2 vols. 
 OLIVER TWIST. 1vol. 
 BLEAK HOUSE. 2 vols. 
 SKETCHES BY BOZ. 1vol. 
 A TALE OF TWO CITIES. 1vol. 
 CHRISTMAS BOOKS. 1vol. 
 PICTURES FROM ITALY, and 
 AMERICAN NOTES. 
 
 Cloth, $2.00 a volume. HaU Calf, 
 
 THE PICKWICK PAPERS. 2 
 vols. 
 
 NICHOLAS NICKLEBY. 2 vols. 
 
 OUR MUTUAL FRIEND. 2 vols. 
 
 MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT. 2 vols. 
 
 GREAT EXPECTATIONS. 1 vol. 
 
 DOMBEY AND SON. 2 vols. 
 
 OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 2 vols. 
 
 THE UNCOMMERCIAL TRAV- 
 ELLER, and ADDITIONAL 
 CHRISTMAS STORIES. 1vol. 
 
 Elegantly bound in Green Morocco 
 $ 100.00 a set.
 
 J. R. Osgood and Company's 
 
 "The best edition of Mr. Dickens's Works that ever has been published, and 
 which has been everywhere well received in Europe and America. The pen- 
 cils of first-rate artists here embody the conceptions of a great artist, and do so 
 well and worthily. The letter-press does the utmost credit to the printers, and 
 the type is impressed on the finest of paper. For the library, or for common 
 use, the Library Edition is by far the best collection of the writings of the 
 Grand Master of Fiction that can be had. Such another array of wit, pathos, 
 humor, sentiment, invention, character, and satire in beautiful externals, it will 
 
 indeed be hard to find, if not quite impossible These Boston editions 
 
 of Mr. Dickens's productions are his editions as much so as those issued in 
 London, while other American editions of those productions, whatever else their 
 merits, have not the crowning merit of all, that of promoting justice through 
 their publication. Their very appearance is an attempt to defeat the ends of 
 justice, a protest against allowing a great man to hold property here in his own 
 productions. Purchasers of books, who are very numerous, should think of 
 this, and act according to that sense of right which exists in every mind." — 
 C. C. Hazewejll, in Boston Traveller, 
 
 THE WAVERLEY NOVELS. 
 
 ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION. 
 
 " Who is there that, on looking back over a great portion of his life, does not 
 find the genius of Scott administering to his pleasures, beguiling his cares, and 
 soothing his lonely sorrows." — Washington Irving. 
 
 This edition contains all the latest notes and corrections of the author, 
 an ample Glossary, and a complete Index of all the personages and incidents 
 of the various tales, being the fullest edition of the Novels ever published. 
 
 The Novels are illustrated with Steel Plates, after drawings and paintings by 
 the most eminent artists. 
 
 The edition contains twenty-five duodecimo volumes, as follows : 
 
 J 
 
 "WAVERLEY, 
 
 GITY MANNERING, 
 
 THE ANTIQUARY, 
 
 ROB ROY, 
 
 OLD MORTALITY, 
 
 THE BLACK DWARF, 
 
 THE LEGEND OF MONTROSE, 
 
 THE HEART OF MID-LOTHIAN, 
 
 THE BRIDE OF LAJVEMERMOOR, 
 
 rVANHOE, 
 
 THE MONASTERY, 
 
 THE ABBOT, 
 
 KENILWORTH, 
 
 THE PIRATE, 
 
 THE FORTUNES OF NIGEL, 
 
 PEVERIL OF THE PEAK, 
 
 QUENTIN DURWARD, 
 
 The volumes are uniform with The Illustrated Libraky Edition op Dick- 
 ens's Works. 
 
 Price, Clothj f 1 50 a volume ; Half Calf, $ 75 a set. 
 
 ST. RONAN'S "WELL, 
 REDGAUNTLET, 
 THE BETROTHED, i 
 
 THE HIGHLAND "WIDO'W, \ 
 "WOODSTOCK, 
 THE TALISMAN, 
 TWO DRO"VrERS, 
 MY AUNT MARGARET'S MIR- 
 ROR. 
 THE TAPESTRIED CHAMBER, 
 THE LAIRD'S JOCK, 
 THE FAIR MAID OF PERTH, 
 ANNE OF GEIERSTEIN, 
 COUNT ROBERT OF PARIS, 
 THE SURGEON'S DAUGHTER,^ 
 CASTLE DANGEROUS, >■ 
 
 INDEX AND GLOSSARY. J
 
 Choice and Popular Worhs of Fiction. 5 
 
 " The clear type, convenient size, and general elegance of this edition com- 
 mend it to t!ie favor of every lover of Scott's romances." — JVeio York Times. 
 
 "It is by far the best cheap edition of Scott's novels ever offered to the 
 American public, and should find a new and wide circle of purchasers." — 
 Springfield Republican. 
 
 " The best of writings in the finest of forms." — Boston Traveller. 
 
 HO USE no LD EDITION. 
 In fifty volumes, uniform in size and shape with the popular Household edi- 
 tions of Reabe, Thackeray, Dickens, &c. S 1.25 a volume. 
 
 liYDIA MARIA CHILD. 
 
 A ROMAJ^CE OF THE REPUBLIC. 1vol. 16mo. $2.00. 
 
 " A story of the influence of slavery on the domestic relations, showing the 
 possible complications to which it might give rise. The plot exhibits great 
 activity of imagination, although the incidents are described with so much 
 strength and naturalness of coloring as to appear like pictures of real life. 
 By alternating the scenes between the South and the North, representativa 
 specimens of the two conditions of society find a wide field for the exhibitioa 
 of their respective peculiarities." — JVezo York Tribune. 
 
 ANNA E. DICKINSON. 
 
 WHAT ANSWER? 1vol. 16mo. $1.50. 
 
 " This is one of the books which belong to the class of deeds, not words. It is 
 a solemn, earnest, thrilling, enthusiastic appeal, in which a noble woman, 
 herself at ease, blessed with flattering friends, with applause, with admiration, 
 takes all in her hand, and risks all in pleading the cause of the poorest, the 
 most despised, the most maltreated and scorned of God's creatures. In the 
 form of a story she makes a most condensed, earnest, and powerful appeal to 
 the heart and conscience of the American nation on the sin of caste. 
 
 " If anybody can read the book unmoved, we have only pity for him. 
 What gives tliis story its awful power is its truth.'''' — Harriet Beecheb 
 Stowe. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 ADAM BEDE. 
 
 THE MILL ON THE FLOSS. 
 
 EOMOLA. 
 
 FELIX HOLT. 
 
 SILAS MARKER, AND SCENES OF CLERICAL LIFE. 
 
 Household Edition. 5 vols. 16mo. S 1.00 each. 
 
 Illustrated Library Edition. Complete in 2 vols. 16mo. With niunerons 
 Illustrations $3.50. 
 
 " George Eliot has made people read novels who never read fiction from 
 any other pen. She has made the novel the companion and friend and study 
 of scholars and thinkers and statesmen. The deep philosophic thought of hsr 
 novels suffuses and illumines them everywhere Her prose might be the study 
 of a scholar anxious to acquire and appreciate a noble style. It is as luminous 
 as the language of Mill ; far more truly picturesque than that of Ruskin ; ca- 
 pable of forcible, memorable expression as the robust Saxon of Bright." — Jcs- 
 TiN McCarthy. 
 
 1*
 
 J. R. Osgood and Company's 
 
 HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 
 
 AGNES OF SORRENTO. An ItaUan Romance. 1vol. ISmo. $2.00. 
 
 THE PEARL OF ORR'S ISLAND. An American Story. 1 vol. 12mo. 
 $2.00. 
 
 UNCLE TOM'S CABIN. 316tli Thousand. 1 vol. 12mo. $ 2.00. 
 
 THE MINISTER'S WOOING. 1 vol. 12mo. $ 2.00. 
 
 THE MAY-FLOWER, and Other Sketches. 1 vol. 12mo. $ 2.00. 
 
 NINA GORDON (formerly published as Dred). 1 vol. 12mo. New- 
 Edition. $ 2.00. 
 
 OLDTOWN FOLKS. 1vol. 12mo. $2.00. 
 
 Mrs. Stowe's romances are among the most thoughtful, picturesque, and 
 popular works of modern fiction. Indeed, they should hardly be called fic- 
 titious, for they treat inimitably and with unfailing freshness some of the deep- 
 est themes that engage the attention of earnest minds ; they paint marvel- 
 lously truthful pictures of the times, countries, and people to which they re- 
 late ; and are inspired by a nobility of purpose that lifts them infinitely above 
 the ordinary novel. Yet they are so humorous, so exceedingly ingenious in 
 depicting the ludicrous side of things, that they rank with the most charming 
 stories in English literature. 
 
 EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 
 
 IF, YES, AND PERHAPS. 1vol. 16mo. $1.50. 
 THE INGHAM PAPERS. 1 voL 16mo. $L50. 
 SYBARIS, AND OTHER HOMES. 1vol. 16mo. $1.50. 
 
 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. 10 cents. 
 
 " Mr. Hale's stories are ingenious, picturesque, vivid, varied, and delight- 
 fully extravagant. To a healthy, cheery tone, and good practical morality 
 they add a keen sense of the ridiculous, a truly religious hatred of humbug 
 and pretension, and an exquisite appreciation of bores. It is refreshing and 
 exhilarating to find a writer who thoroughly believes in the widest social 
 intercourse, in ' keeping abreast of the thought of the age, in interweaving 
 that thought with the active life of an active town, and inspiring both and 
 making both infinite by glimpses of the eternal glory.' " — Advertiser {Boston). 
 
 THOMAS HUGHES. 
 
 TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS AT RUGBY. 1vol. 16mo. New 
 Edition, with Illustrations. $ 1.25. 
 
 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. 2 vols. 16mo. With Portrait of the 
 Author. $3.00. 
 " We need not renew the record of the admiration with which the whole 
 series of Dr. Hughes's books, commencing with Tom Brown when he first went 
 to Rugby, and ending when he had passed through the crystal gates of learn- 
 ing and entered those golden portals within which lie love and life, has in- 
 spired us. They are among the noblest and manliest things of the time, and 
 worth their weight in diamonds to English and American youth." — J^ew York 
 Atlas.
 
 Choice and Popular Works of Fiction. 
 
 MRS. ANNE M. C. SEEMULLER. 
 
 REGINALD ARCHER. 1 vol. 12mo. $2.00. Popular Edition. 
 8vo. Paper, 75 cents ; Cloth, $ 1.25. 
 
 ERTILY CHESTER. 1 vol. 12mo. $ 2.00. 
 
 OPPORTUNITY. 1vol. 12mo. $2.00. 
 
 " ' Reginald Archer,' a novel by the author of ' Emily Chester,' has many of 
 the characteristics of that book,which made much noise at the time it was pub- 
 lished ; but the present book shows a much deeper experience of Ufe than 
 that, while it does not lack the insight and generosity of spirit that were so 
 attractive in ' Emily Chester.' " — Springfield Republican. 
 
 WOVEN OF MANY THREADS. 
 
 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 50 cents ; Cloth, $ 1.00. 
 
 " A really good novel, by an American writer, is such a rarity that we have 
 to thank James R. Osgood & Co., of Boston, for publishing 'Woven of Many 
 Threads ' It comes to us as a story written by an American lady, with its 
 scene in England, France, and Italy, giving true and vivid sketches of social 
 life in each country." — Philadelphia Press. 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 THE MARQUIS DE VILLEMER. Translated (from the French of 
 George Sand by Ralph Keeler. 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents ; 
 Cloth, $1.25. 
 
 *' The readers of Every Saturday will remember this novel as one of George 
 Band's most charmingly simple and natural stories. The plot Is very quiet, 
 the characters few, and the action limited ; but these elements are worked up 
 in a masterly manner, and the result is a very delightful story. The descrip- 
 tions of scenery are, of course, fine, for no one excels George Sand in her 
 power of seizing the characteristic points in a landscape, and then vividly 
 reproducing them," — Ph.ladelphia Post. 
 
 SOMETHING TO DO. 
 
 A New Novel. 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents ; Cloth, $ 1.25. 
 
 " It is a story of great power and dramatic interest, and is written in a way 
 to enchain the attention. There is something very beautiful in the life of 
 Alice, who in a sweet and gentle way finds ever ' something to do,' while In 
 the glorious beauty and commanding talents of her sister Celia there is a pa- 
 thos and a vein of sadness that make our very hearts ache. Woman's rights, 
 and other absorbing topics of the times find a place in this book, though not 
 to a wearisome extent. Sweet vistas are opened up to us, where Nature is seen 
 in all her loveliness, and where the heart goes out for the pure and simple 
 pleasures of rural life." — Concord People. 
 
 TOO BRIGHT TO LAST. 
 
 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 35 cents.
 
 8 J. R. Osgood and Oompany's 
 
 CAROLINE CHESEBRO'. 
 
 THE FOE IN THE HOUSEHOLD. 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents : 
 Cloth, $ 1.25. 
 
 An engaging and instructive story, painting in strong but truthful colors 
 
 some of the evil influences that mar the beauty and destroy the peace of many 
 
 a household. 
 
 " ' The Foe in the Household,' by Caroline Chesebro', is a story of intense 
 dramatic interest, and is written with a force as well as a delicacy truly admira- 
 ble." — Boston Post. 
 
 " A powerful story." — Boston Commonwealth. 
 
 MRS. VALERIC 
 
 IN A. A Novel. 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents. 
 
 WILLIAM GODWIN. 
 
 CALEB WILLIAMS. 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 35 cents. 
 
 W. M. THACKERAY. 
 
 CATHERINE. 1vol. 8vo. 35 cents. 
 
 CHARLES READE. 
 
 FOUL PLAY. 1 vol. 8vo. Illustrated. Paper, 25 cents. 
 GRIFFITH GAUNT. 1 vol. 8vo. Illustrated. Paper, 25 cents. 
 THE CLOISTER AND THE HEARTH. 1vol. 8vo. Paper, 35 cents. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS. 
 
 THE MYSTERY OF EDWIN DROOD. 1 vol. 8vo. Illustrated. 
 Paper, 25 cents. 
 
 EDWIN DROOD, AND UNCOLLECTED PIECES. 1 vol. 8vo. 
 Illustrated. Paper, 50 cents. 
 
 CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 TWO YEARS AGO. 1vol. 12mo. $1.75. 
 
 HEREWARD : THE LAST OF THE ENGLISH. 1 vol. 12mo. 
 $1.75. 
 
 " Of all the writers of fiction of the present time, Charles Kingsley is the 
 most brilliant, the most in earnest, the most imaginative, the most free in 
 thought and pen, and, in his special field, the most useful." — Springfield 
 Republican.
 
 Choice and Popular Works of Fiction. 9 
 
 HENRY KINGSLEY. 
 
 NOVELS. New Popular Edition. 
 
 Elegantly bound in ornamented cloth. Price, $ 1.00 a volume. 
 
 THE RECOLLECTIONS OF GEOFERY HAMLYN. 1vol. 12mo. 
 
 RAVENSHOE. 1 vol. 12nio. 
 
 AUSTIN ELLIOT. 1 vol. 12mo. 
 
 THE HILLYARS ANT> THE BURTONS. 1vol. 12mo. 
 
 LEIGHTON COURT. 1vol. 16nio. 
 
 SILCOTE OF SELCOTES. 1 vol. 8vo. Paper, 75 cents. 
 
 " He sees human nature with unusual clearness. With much of the keen- 
 ness and more than the geniality of Thackeray, he detects the generous traits 
 of a depraved nature and the weakness that lurks in a correct one. He is no 
 moral leveller. His pages teach the same lesson that is taught by life itself ; 
 enlarged candor and forbearance, not laxity of principle." — Springfield Re- 
 publican. 
 
 HARRIET E. PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. 
 
 THE AMBER GODS. 1vol. 16mo. $1.50. 
 
 AZARIAN. 1 vol. IGmo. $ 1.50. 
 
 " In style and thought these stories are remarkable. They are jewels of 
 rare beauty and value." — Buffalo Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 NATHANIEI. HAWTHORNE. 
 
 THE MARBLE FAUN; or, The Romance of Monte Beni. 2 vols. 
 
 16mo. $ 4.00. 
 
 THE SCARLET LETTER. 1vol. 16mo. $2.00. 
 
 THE HOUSE OF THE SEVEN GABLES. 1vol. 16mo. $2.00. 
 
 TWICE-TOLD TALES. With Portrait. 2 vols. 16mo. $4.00. Blue 
 and Gold, $ 3.00. 
 
 THE SNOW IMAGE, AND OTHER TWICE-TOLD TALES. 1 vol. 
 lOmo. $2.00. 
 
 THE BLITHEDALE ROMANCE. 1 voL 16mo. $2.00. 
 
 MOSSES FROM AN OLD MANSE. 2 vols. 16mo. $4.00. 
 
 TRUE STORIES FROM HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. Elustrated. 
 IvoL 16mo. $1.50. 
 
 THE WONDER BOOK, FOR GIRLS AND BOYS. Illustrated. 
 1vol. 16mo. $1.50. 
 
 TANGLEWOOD TALES. Illustrated. 1vol. 16mo. $1.50. 
 
 NEW LIBRARY EDITION OF HAWTHORNE'S WORKS. 
 2 vols in one, — to consist of about 10 vols., 16mo. Illustrated. Uniform in 
 general style and size with the Illustrated Library Editions of Dickens and 
 the Waverley Novels. Price, $ 2.00 a volume.
 
 10 J. R. Osgood and Company's 
 
 " Hawthorne is one of the tenderest-hearted men that ever made humor more 
 piquant with the pungency of satire. There is a side of sombre shadow to his 
 nature which sets forth the bright felicities of subtle insight with a more 
 shining richness. He has a weird imagination, which at will can visit the 
 border-land of flesh and spirit, whence breathe the creeping airs that thrill with 
 fearful fascination. His mirth is grave with sweet thoughts ; the very poetry 
 of humor is to be found in his pages, with an aroma fine as the sweet-brier's 
 fragrance." — JVorth British Review. 
 
 H. W. LONGFELLOW. 
 
 HYPERION : A Romance. 1 vol. 16mo. $ 1.50. 
 OUTRE-MER. 1vol. 16mo. $1.50. 
 KAVANAGH. 1vol. 16mo. $1.25. 
 
 " Every sentence that Longfellow has penned Is as clear as crystal and as 
 pure as snow. He wears his weight of learning ' lightly as a flower.' He 
 puts our best thoughts into the best language, with that high art which con- 
 ceals itself." — JVortli British Review. 
 
 MARIA S. CUMMINS. 
 
 THE LAMPLIGHTER. 1vol. 16ino. $1.75. 
 
 " It is a book of no ordinary degree of ability and excellence. Its success is 
 richly merited by its high moral tone, the naturalness of its characters and 
 incidents, and the graces of its style." — Christian Examiner. 
 
 EL FUREIDIS. 1 voL 16mo. $1.75. 
 
 " ' El Fureidts ' unquestionably places Miss Cummins in the foremost and 
 most honored rank of the fiction writers of our age." — Boston Post. 
 
 ''The book breathes all through of the sunny Orient." — Philadelphia Press. 
 
 CHARLES READE. 
 
 NOVELS. Household Edition. 
 
 Published with the Author's sanction. Complete in nine volumes : bound 
 in green morocco cloth, with gilt back and side. 
 
 NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND. 
 
 1vol. 
 PEG WOFFINGTON, CHRISTIE 
 
 JOHNSTONE, and other Stories. 
 
 1vol. 
 PUT YOURSELF IN HIS PLACE. 
 
 1vol. 
 
 HARD CASH. 1 vol. 
 
 FOUL PLAY. 1 vol. 
 
 WHITE LIES. 1 vol. 
 
 LOVE ME LITTLE LOVE ME 
 
 LONG. 1vol. 
 GRIFFITH GAUNT. 1 vol. 
 THE CLOISTER AND THE 
 
 HEARTH. 1 vol. 
 
 Price, $ 1.00 a volume. 
 
 " Mr. Reade has become one of the greatest artists in the realm of fiction. 
 His power is of the kind which will always seem cearse to a certain class of 
 minds unable to discriminate, — for he is very apt to call a spade a spade ; and 
 among the minikin performances of the day, his strong and genuine mastery 
 over human characters and passions shows out with a force of outline which 
 may possibly, in some cases, look exaggerated But we are disposed to assign 
 this powerful romancist one of the highest places in his art." — Blackwoocfs 
 Magazine.
 
 Choice and Popular Works of Fiction. 11 
 
 WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY. 
 
 NOVELS. Household Edition. 
 
 Unform with the Household Reade. Complete in six volumes, bound in 
 green morocco cloth, gilt back and side. 
 
 VANITY FAIR. 1 vol. 
 THE NEWCOMES. 1 vol. 
 ADVENTURES OF PHILIP. 
 
 vol. 
 
 Price per volume, $ 1.25. 
 
 PENDENNIS. 1vol. 
 THE VIRGINIANS. 1 vol. 
 ESMOND, and 
 LOVEL THE WIDOWER. 1vol. 
 
 Illustrated Library Edition. 
 
 Uniform with the Illustrated Library Editions of Dickens, Waverlet 
 Novels, etc. "With numerous Illustrations by the Author, Doyle, Walker, 
 and Du JIaurier. 6 vols. 12mo. $ 2.00 each. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS. Household Edition. 
 
 Uniform with Thackeray's Novels. Complete in five volumes. With new 
 Portrait. 16mo. Cloth, $ 1.25. 
 
 This edition includes all the matter in the late English edition with various 
 additions, thus making it with the Novels, 
 
 ([g^~" The cheapest and most complete Thackeray in the market. 
 
 CATHERINE. 1 vol. 8vo. Paper Covers, 35 cents. 
 
 EARLY AND LATE PAPERS. 1vol. 16mo. With Portrait. $2.00. 
 
 MISS ANNE THACKERAY. 
 
 THE STORY OF ELIZABETH, and other Stories. Household Edi- 
 tion. 1vol. 16mo. $1.00. 
 
 " ' The Story of Elizabeth ' affords an almost solitary instance of a simple, 
 touching, lifelike tale, which possesses interest without any physical horrors, 
 and amusement without the aid of melodrama." — Fraser''s Magazine. 
 
 THE VILLAGE ON THE CLIFF, and other Stories and Sketches. 
 Household Edition. 1 vol. 16mo. $ 1.00. 
 
 " Compared with the ordinary run of three volume novels, the ' Village on 
 the Clifif ' is as a highly finished cabinet picture by the side of a dozen square 
 
 yards of stage scenery The writer possesses original gifts of her own, 
 
 a capability of minutely analyzing mental struggles, and a peculiar faculty for 
 depicting the landscape in which her characters move. So powerful is her 
 rendering that we do not merely say coldly, 'This is a vivid and truthful pic- 
 ture ' ; we insensibly breathe, as we read, the very atmosphere of the place 
 described." — London Times. 
 
 GOETHE. 
 
 WILHELM MEISTER. Translated by Thomas Caxlyle. With fine 
 Portrait of Goethe. 2 vols. 12mo. $ 3.50. 
 
 "Perhaps the greatest single novel is Goethe's ' Wilhehn Melster.' " — E. 
 P. Whipple.
 
 12 J. R. Osgood 8f Co.'s Works of Fiction. 
 
 THEODORE WINTHROP. 
 
 WORKS. New Popular Edition. 
 
 Elegantly bound in ornamented cloth. Price S 1.00 a volume. 
 
 CECIL DREEME. Witli Biographical Sketch by George William 
 Curtis. 1 vol. 16nio. 
 
 JOHN BRENT. 1 vol. 16mo. 
 
 EDWIN BROTETERTOET. 1 vol. 16mo. 
 
 THE CANOE AND THE SADDLE. 1 vol. IGmo. 
 
 LIFE IN THE OPEN AIR, and other Papers. 1 vol. 16mo. 
 
 " The polish which culture gives to the mind, combined with native force of 
 character and large experience of men and countries, are all manifested in 
 Theodore "Winthrop. He is, in our opinion, one of the most original of Amer- 
 ican writers, without being either vulgar or offensive to men of education 
 
 He gives us the impression of always relating what he had witnessed. His 
 heroes and heroines act as human beings who have really passed through the 
 adventures in which they are made to figure. He had experienced what life 
 really is, before attempting to depict it in a novel." — Westminster Review. 
 
 GOOD STORIES. 
 
 A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES, TALES, AND SKETCHES. 
 Parts I., II., III., IV. Small quarto. Illustrated. 
 
 This collection is intended to bring together, in cheap and attractive form, the 
 best and most popular short stories of all languages. The character of the 
 Stories selected, and the striking and appropriate Illustrations, make these 
 little books very desirable to all lovers of thoroughly good Stories ; while the 
 shape and size of the volumes, and their large type, make them specially suited 
 to the convenience of travellers. 
 
 PART I. — Contents ; The Avenger, by Thomas De Quinoet ; Peter 
 Goldthwaite's Treasure, by Nathaniel Hawthorne ; Love and Skates, by 
 Theodore Winthrop ; The Defaulter, by Thomas Hood ; Coldstream, by 
 Herbert Vaughan ; Madonna, by Henry Spicer. 
 
 PART II. — Contents -. The Metempsychosis, by Robert Macnish ; The 
 Uninvited ; The Bellows-Mender of Lyons ; The Smallchange Family ; The 
 Scotsman's Tale, by Harriet Lee ; The Blacksmiths of Holsby ; A Penitent 
 Confession. 
 
 PART III. — Contents: Christmas with the Baron; Stephen Yarrow, by 
 Mrs. Rebecca Harding Davis ; A Family Christmas in Germany, Trans- 
 lated from the German ; Three of a Trade, or Red Little Kriss Kringle, by 
 FiTZ James O'Brien ; Adventures of a New Year's Eve, by Hbnrich Zsohokke. 
 
 PART IV. — Contents : From Hand to Mouth, by Fitz- James O'Brien; 
 Count Ernest's Home, by Paul Hetse ; Little Peg O'Shaughnessy ; A Shabby 
 Genteel Story, by W. M. Thackeray. 
 
 In handsome paper covers. Price, Fifty Cents each. 
 
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 any other' vehicle, chair, or stool." — Worcester Palladium. 
 
 "Delectable little volumes for old and young." — Philadelphia Press,
 
 11 
 
 PSu:;Ji:!.'i}} ! ftiiiii'if'' : [^ I, 
 
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